


Calliope

by onlyastoryteller, overflow



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Because we needed a reason to multiply our angst quotient by combining forces, Death-Defying Stunts, Elaborate Costumes, How to fake a French accent by Timothee Chalamet, M/M, Period Setting: 1890s, Traveling Circus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyastoryteller/pseuds/onlyastoryteller, https://archiveofourown.org/users/overflow/pseuds/overflow
Summary: Somewhere in the American South in the mid-1890s,Guadagnino and SonsTraveling Circus boasts highly skilled performers, a well-trained menagerie, and most notably, Terrific Timothée of the Flying Trapeze with his increasingly death-defying stunts. When the circus comes through Fairview, Armand Hammer should be at yet another dinner at the family estate...but who can resist the call of the calliope?





	1. Armie

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, we started talking and somehow this story was born. Neither of us knew anything about traveling circuses, 19th century medicine, or the dawn of electricity. We still don't, really, but why let that stop us?
> 
> 100% fiction, of course.

It was like nothing he had ever seen. 

Armie sat straight up on the wooden bench seat under the Big Top, using the full advantage of his height to peer over the beribboned hats and bare heads around him. It was almost too much to absorb. Too many sounds, too many smells, too many colors, and all of it was attacking him with a vibrancy and brightness that gave him the pleasure-pain sensation of overstimulation. 

He loved it and feared it all at once. 

The calliope struck up a bright, discordant march on the edge of the center ring. Hundreds of people crowded onto the twelve rising levels of creaking wooden boards and supports that surrounded it, chattering excitedly and shouting to each other over the music.

Vendors wandered up and down the platforms, announcing their wares — _Popcorn heeeaaaah! Peanuts heeeeaaaah! —_ and their heady smells overwhelmed Armie. They almost, but not quite, drowned out the scents of sweat, grime, and animal musk that hung in the air. On impulse, he stood and waved at a peanut vendor. In one large hand, he easily caught the bag of warm nuts the vendor threw over the crowd. Then, with his other hand, he passed some coins to the man next to him, who passed them down the line until the vendor slipped them into his apron with a nod.

Returning to his seat, Armie grinned. _This is so much better than being at home_.

That almost went without saying. After all, Armie had snuck out of his father’s imposing estate under the cover of twilight, wearing clothes pilfered from the stablehand’s quarters, for a reason. He was avoiding another stuffy and uncomfortable dinner party during which he would be scrutinized by his entire family as well as their friends. Scrutinized and found wanting, as usual.

_Armand, must you be so difficult?_

_Armand, please try to be pleasant to our guests and try not to act like you are in pain._

_Armand, everything is riding on this — do not let us down again._

At this point, he could write out a script, and his parents and brothers would be able to play it without ever laying eyes on it. It was the story of his life, and he had heard the same exact things since he was a small child.

This wasn’t the first time he had snuck out to avoid the suffocation of it all. He had been doing so since he had learned how to climb the ivy-covered wall at the east edge of the lawn, and figured out that the tanning he’d receive the next day was worth it for the several hours of freedom.

Often, he wouldn't even leave the estate. As a child, he’d hide in the stables, or out by the old slave quarters, where the dogs would find him and he’d tumble with them a while. Other times, he’d walk into town and slink along the alleys, peering in windows of the pubs and longing for the days when he could go inside and join what looked to him like good fun. But as he aged, Armie found that he preferred to remain in the shadows. Being in the light meant people would recognize him and word would get back to his father too quickly. He usually spent his freedom quietly, seeking to escape _from_ something rather than _to_ something.

But _this_...this was new. The circus had never come through Fairview before. When Armie had heard that it was in town, for one more night only, he knew what he had to do. It didn't matter that his parents intended to announce his engagement that evening, didn't matter that the fact that he wasn't there would certainly cause them embarrassment. He had to come out and see the circus, even if it meant he’d not be able to sit down for two weeks after his father was finished with him.

Armie cringed slightly at the thought. Even though, at twenty, he was now taller and broader than his old man or any of his brothers, he still found it difficult to defend himself. It was an old habit, he figured, to just brace himself and _take_ it, the way he had been taught. 

Suddenly, the lamps around the bleachers were extinguished, leaving only the center ring lit. The tempo of the music changed, and the rat-a-tat of a snare drum began. The crowd quieted in an instant, Armie refocused on his surroundings. He pushed all thoughts of home out of his mind to be dealt with later. 

It was time for the show. 

* * *

Looking back on that first night, Armie would remember feeling both overwhelmed and more inspired than he had ever felt before in his life. The acrobats sprang from the dirt floor of the tent as if it was made of rubber, balancing on each other with an almost inhuman grace. Bareback riders sailed around the rings on graceful steeds. Clowns danced and bobbled around and interacted with the front rows. The lion tamer thrilled as he tangled with the beautiful prowling felines in his care. Everything was dizzying and heady and glittering, and Armie was enthralled.

At least, he thought he was. Until it was time for the flying trapeze.

Following the lion tamer’s exit, the ringleader, in his bright yellow coat with silver tassels fluttering, strode into the spotlight of the center ring, hop-stepping to a jaunty tune.

He raised his bright red megaphone to his mouth, and his smooth voice with a slight southern twang echoed across the packed tent. “Ladies and Gentlemen, that was incredible, was it not? Let us raise a cheer for the Amazing Leonardo and his lethal lovelies!” The ringleader raised his hands over his head, and the audience erupted into applause and shouts of appreciation.

Armie joined in.

“Now, let’s take things up a notch, shall we? Our next act will take place high above our heads, so cast your eyes towards the heavens…” Spotlights swung up, up, up towards the roof, and the crowd turned their faces up as one. Perched on a tiny platform two-thirds of the way up towards the roof of the tent was a tall blonde boy with a lean but muscular build. The opposite platform held two more performers: a slim girl — Armie thought he recognized her from the acrobatics act earlier — and another tall boy, this one with dark hair. “...and let Terrific Timothée, Soaring Saoirse, and Awesome Ansel take your breath away on the flying trapeeeeeeeze!”

Armie certainly lost his breath. It happened immediately, as soon as he laid eyes on the dark-haired boy. He was long and lithe, wearing a purple bodysuit that sparkled in the spotlight. His dark hair curled delicately around his ears and contrasted with his elegant, cream-colored neck. He moved like a ribbon in the breeze, his arms extending up and away from his body, then back in and down to wrap around his waist, and furling outward again as he presented himself to different parts of the audience. 

But it was the boy’s face that stopped Armie in his tracks. When the kid turned to face Armie’s section, he looked down at them, and Armie nearly gasped. The boy had the highest cheekbones Armie had ever seen, full lips, and a smile that could outshine the brightest spotlight.

Then they were in motion. The blonde boy grabbed up a fly bar and with a wave of his hand, launched himself off of the tiny platform. He swung through the air, releasing the bar and twisting in the air to catch it again, pumping his legs to increase his height as he swung. From the other platform, the girl grabbed her own fly bar, timing her swing so that she was moving towards the blonde. He flipped position to hang by his knees and stretched out his hands just as she released her bar and tumbled through the air.

The audience gasped, but the blonde easily caught her arms, and the gasps turned into cheers. The blonde released the girl, and she twisted to catch the fly bar the third boy had tossed out to meet her. He helped her find her footing back on the platform, and there were more cheers as she bowed. 

This pass was repeated twice more, with the blonde performing small solo tricks while the girl reset, and using different releases and tumbles each time. 

“Awesome Ansel and Soaring Saoirse, everyone!” cried the ringleader from below. “And now...the one you've crossed county lines to see. His reputation precedes him, but there is no substitute for the real thing as he flies from over forty feet in the air...Teeeeerriffic Timothée!”

While the ringleader was speaking, the dark-haired boy — Timothée — climbed the tent pole to the highest platform. Armie squinted up as the boy flexed his hands and stretched out his legs, pointing his toes one at a time. He lifted a fly bar from its hook and shook it out, and then he jumped up and off the platform, swinging out over the middle of the ring. 

For several swings he released and somersaulted and caught the bar effortlessly, without a pause to catch his breath. Armie watched, his lower lip caught between his teeth, as Timothée pulled his legs up and somehow flipped around so he was standing in the fly bar. He gestured out with one elegant arm and then the other, seemingly using only his toes to keep him on the bar while it still swung wide and high. As it slowed, he extended and withdrew his long limbs with smooth grace, snaking his way around the ropes and the bar in a sinuous ballet. 

Suddenly, when the trapeze was almost vertical, he seemed to step backwards off of the fly bar and drop. Just as the audience collectively leaned forward in shock, he caught the bar and swung his legs out so that the trapeze began to spin, its ropes twisting above his head. He scissored his legs until the trapeze was twisted to its limit, then straightened his body into a narrow column, hanging straight down. 

The twisted ropes of the trapeze began to unwind, spinning Timothée faster and faster in the opposite direction. He was a blur of glittery purple and then—

He dropped from the bar, still spinning. 

Armie shot to his feet in panic along with everyone seated around him. Someone behind him screamed. 

_No,_ thought Armie. He didn't want to witness a tragedy. His stomach jumped up to his throat, and his heart was beating a hard, fast rhythm. 

But then, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, Timothée’s arms shot out and he was caught by Ansel, who was at the rise of his swing. 

The entire crowd burst into shouts and applause as Timothée and Ansel arced overhead. Timothée let go, twisted in the air, and caught the trapeze tossed by Saoirse, then swung back up onto the lower platform. He tossed the trapeze down to Ansel, who somersaulted to it and joined the pair. 

Armie was yelling and waving his hands in the air along with everyone else as the trio took their bows. 

When the spotlights swung back down to illuminate the clowns, Armie sank back into his seat, feeling like he had just hauled a boulder up a steep hill. The rest of the show faded into a haze after that, unable to match up to the wonder of the flying trapeze. 

* * *

As the crowd around him got to their feet and began to descend to the ground, Armie overheard a couple talking. He wanted to ask them a question and swallowed nervously several times, rehearsing the words in his head. Finally, when they moved past him and he knew if he didn’t act fast he’d miss his chance, he reached out a hand to stop them.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhear your conversation. Is it true that the performers sometimes greet the audience after the show?”

“Oh, yes,” said the young woman.”This is our third night coming here, and afterwards some of them line up outside to sign autographs and meet us. Two nights ago we met Bobbin the Clown and one of the bareback girls, and last night we met the man on stilts.”

“Thank you,” said Armie.

He wove his way through the throng of people leaving the Big Top, keeping his head down. It was hard to go unnoticed when you were nearly six and a half feet tall, but with his chin tucked to his chest, his hat jammed down on his forehead, and his shoulders hunched, he usually managed to at a minimum look like he didn’t want to be bothered. 

Once outside, he drew himself back up to his full height just long enough to scan the area and spot a particularly dense part of the crowd over to the left. A cheer went up in that area, and Armie saw a number of performers emerging from another set of tents, still fully costumed, waving and smiling. 

His eyes landed on a row of posters pasted to the beams out front, signs leading people into the main event. One in particular drew his gaze. It was blue-toned, and depicted a lean form on a high platform, one arm stretched out and holding a fly bar. In the lower corner were the words “Terrific Timothée of the Flying Trapeze!” In the upper corner was Timothée’s face. 

Armie reached out and peeled it off the placard. He quickly rolled it into a tight cylinder. The circus was leaving town in the morning; they didn't need this anymore, Armie reasoned. It would be a way for him to remember the night once he was back home. 

Armie turned away to head there, but when the cheers intensified, he turned back. 

There, amidst the other performers, we're the trio of trapeze artists. Including Terrific Timothée. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Armie’s feet brought him to the rear of that crowd. He waited patiently as people shook hands with the performers, edging closer until he was standing directly in front of Timothée himself. 

The boy turned from shaking hands with a young girl and looked up at Armie. He smiled. Up close, he was even more stunning, despite — or maybe because of — the stage makeup he was wearing. It darkened his lashes and the edges of his eyes, highlighting every remarkable feature. Armie had never seen a more beautiful face in his life, with those cheekbones and the flawless ivory skin. But it was his eyes, a piercing green, that were most captivating. They had depth and character and--

Armie swallowed hard. He snatched his hat off of his head and opened his mouth, but couldn't seem to remember how to speak. 

“Did you enjoy the show?” Timothée’s voice was deeper than Armie expected, and a little scratchy, as though his throat was sore. He spoke with an accent...French, Armie thought. 

Silently, Armie nodded. 

Timothée stared at him for a moment, and then stuck out his hand. “I'm Timothée,” he said. 

Armie reached out and clasped Timothée's hand in his. The boy’s fingers were slender and cool, in contrast to Armie’s giant, warm palm. Which was also sweaty, and that was disgusting and embarrassing. He took his hand back quickly.

“Well...thank you for coming,” Timothée gave him an odd look and then turned to the next person, someone who was able to speak back and have an actual conversation. 

Armie watched for a moment and then turned and pushed his way back out of the mass of people. Beads of perspiration had sprung up on his face and neck and he struggled to draw a full breath. 

_What is wrong with me?_ he asked himself in frustration, plowing around the far corner of the Big Top. Once he had stumbled into the semi-darkness away from the public area, he stopped and bent down to place his hands on his knees. 

The night air was refreshing, even though it was warm. After two hours jammed in an enclosed space with hundreds of people and large animals, even the light breeze was like an arctic wind against his damp skin. Armie took several deep breaths, focusing on the feeling of his chest expanding and contracting, and after a few minutes he straightened up, feeling more like himself again. 

He had always had trouble with people. Crowds didn't usually bother him as long as he wasn't the focus of attention. But when people were looking at him and expecting him to _be_ a certain way or to _say_ the right things…

...Armie preferred hanging around the dogs or the horses. 

It was one of the reasons he had needed to leave home that night. The dinner was for him. For him and Elizabeth, to announce their engagement. He couldn't stand the thought of everyone expecting him to make conversation or answer questions or — good God — make a toast. 

Especially since he didn't actually _want_ to be engaged to Elizabeth. His father had arranged it because her family owned the property to the east of the Hammer estate. She was a nice girl, and had always been friendly with him, but that was all they were. Even though she had spent the past couple of years hinting at him about wanting to be more. 

So of course she was thrilled with the arrangement, and he couldn't — _could not_ — tell her why he wasn't. 

He knew it was late and that he should get back home...but really, what difference would it make if he stayed a little longer? He had already missed cocktails and dinner. Had already embarrassed his parents and Elizabeth, and probably hurt her feelings. 

Surely, it wouldn't matter if he lingered. In fact, if he timed it properly he could arrive back long after everyone was asleep and put off the consequences of his actions until morning at least. 

Because he didn't feel like returning to the crowds, Armie turned away from the public space and retreated further into the backstage area. He'd find a spot to just sit for a while, stay out of the way. 

He didn't get far when he heard a shout.

“Scusi,” called a voice from the shadows.

Armie quickly spun around and headed back towards the front. As much as he didn't want to be in the throngs of people, he also didn't want to get in trouble. That was all he needed. 

“Scusi,” called the voice again. “You are going the wrong way.”

Armie stopped and waited as footsteps approached. A hand landed on your shoulder. 

“My, you are a big one.” A wiry man with a balding head and a messy beard peered up at him. “Good. We will need your help over at the mess tent first. We usually wait until the people leave to strike the Big Top, yes? Otherwise, the illusion…” He waved his hands around. “She is destroyed. Come.”

Wordlessly, and unsure exactly why he was obeying the command, Armie followed the man into a side tent, where performers were in various states of disrobing. The man then exited out the opposite side, into yet another tent. 

Armie gaped at the size of the tent in front of him. Unlike the Big Top, it was open to the air on the sides, but it was massive area filled with tables. Several people were collapsing tables and chairs and stacking them onto pallets. 

“Jump right in,” said the man. “Dev will tell you what to do once this is done. You get paid in the morning when we roll out.”

Armie watched the man walk away. He had clearly thought Armie had taken a job as temporary help, to assist with breaking down tent city for the journey to the next county. He looked down at his dusty stablehand clothing and smiled. 

_Well, you were looking for a way to waste time until morning,_ Armie reasoned. He began to help the men clear out the tables and chairs, earning a nod of acknowledgement from both. 

Armie worked silently alongside the circus workers throughout the night. He took orders from the others, watched carefully as they showed him how to keep the tension in the ropes while bringing down the tents, and enjoyed the physical exertion. 

The moon was still high in the sky and he was helping a team pack the panels of the Big Top tent itself when he heard a voice that made him stumble. 

“Which of you goops needs canteen?”

Armie whipped his head around. Timothée — now clad in snug, knee-length black pants and a loose-fitting woven shirt — was approaching the men. He was accompanied by the tall blonde, who was dragging a wagon filled with jugs of water. Several of the men raised their hands and called out their thanks as the boys passed around tin cups. The blonde smacked a few on the back as they joked and laughed. Timothée seemed to have a sharp barb to throw at each of them along with his white-teethed grin, but they shot back with smiles and it all seemed in good humor.

When he reached Armie, he blinked in surprise. “Hey, you again,” said Timothée.”I didn't realize you were helping us out tonight. I thought you were just a fan, the way you were crowding the reception line. Sorry.” He gave a wry smile, the left side of his mouth quirking up. 

Timothée recognized him? Armie was so stunned by that fact that it took him a moment to notice that Timothée’s accent had mysteriously disappeared, leaving him with the broad cadence of an American. 

Armie took the cup Timothée offered, cupping the metal in his hands and gulping down the cool liquid. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was, and the water was almost sweet as it slid down his parched throat. When he was finished, he swiped some droplets from his chin and handed the cup back to Timothée, who was waiting. 

Once again, confronted with this young man, who was looking at him expectantly, he couldn't seem to make his throat produce sounds. So instead he inclined his head, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He hoped it conveyed his thanks. Timothée blinked at him. 

“You're welcome,” he said, with another odd look. 

Then the other boy was hauling the wagon away to deliver water elsewhere, Timothée on his heels.

As the sun started to peek over the horizon, Armie stretched his arms over his head and tried to work out the tightness in his back. He hadn't worked that hard in a while, and he was exhausted, but it felt good. 

The bearded man who had put Armie to work in the first place approached. “Good work,” he said. He handed over an envelope filled with bills.

Armie stared at it. He had never before been handed money for work he had done. Money that was _his_ , and not attached to his family or strings they were pulling to keep him in line. What would he do with it? Could he take more jobs like this, earn more, and...

He looked up and realized the man was still standing there, and he was studying Armie. 

“It is funny. Federico does not recall hiring you,” he said. “And we had one too many workers tonight.” He raised an eyebrow. 

Armie ducked his head. _Say something,_ he scolded himself. _Apologize at least. Explain yourself. Before he calls the police and Father finds out._

“S-sorry,” he said. “But you seemed to need help and...I enjoyed it.” He held the envelope out, even though it pained him to do it. “You don't have to pay me,” he said. 

The man shrugged. “Keep it. You earned it.”

Armie hesitated, then placed the envelope in his pocket. “Thank you.”

The man looked him over. “You were at the show last night?”

Armie nodded. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It was…” Armie blew out a breath. “I've never seen its equal.”

The man beamed.”Of course you haven't. Guadagnino and Sons has the best traveling show in the entire country.” 

“I'm glad I got to experience it, then,” said Armie. Watching the sun rise higher, he sighed. It was time to face the music. “I should...get home.”

“Hmm.” The man studied him intently. “You don't sound like that is something you want to do.”

Armie shrugged. 

“What's your name, son?” asked the man. 

“I'm...Armie.” Armie gave the nickname he liked but his family hated, and left off his last name. 

“Armie,” said the man. He stuck out a hand. “I am Luca Guadagnino.”

“Guadagnino?” asked Armie. “As in—”

“Yes, yes.” Luca waved his hand in the air. “I own the circus. And...Armie, would you like to join us?”

Armie's gaze snapped to Luca’s. “What?”

“I asked if you would like to come along when we leave this morning. Become a permanent part of the family.”

Armie thought about going back to the Hammer estate, about what was likely to happen. He thought about his father, his brothers. He thought about marrying Elizabeth. He thought about never experiencing again the thrill of the previous evening. 

“Why would you just...ask me to join you?” he asked. 

“You're a good worker. And you seem...lost. We are wanderers. Our home is wherever we take it. Maybe that would suit you.”

Armie looked out at the sun, which was almost free of the horizon. Could he actually do what Luca was asking? Go with them? Leave his home and his family, with no word, just like that? Spend days and night working alongside the circus crew...and Timothée. He'd get to see Timothée. Try again to talk to him. 

“ _Yes_. I...the answer is yes. I want to join you.”

The answer burst out of him, and he felt a sense of relief, of rightness. 

Luca beamed at him, then clapped him on the back. “Good. It's good. Come on, we’ll roll out soon.”

Armie took one last look at the horizon. Somewhere in that distance was his family, the world he had been born into, with its path laid out for him in a neat little package that he had no hand in creating. Somewhere out there was everything he had ever known. 

He turned his back on it and followed Luca into the heart of his new life. 


	2. Timothée

He was standing forty-five feet above the ground, and he was about to jump.

Saoirse was ready for him, her knees bent around the swinging bar, her arms outstretched to grab him when he swung over to her.There was to be a fairly significant gap between his bar and Saoirse’s when he let go, a moment where he flew the air and flipped once, weightless.

It had to be timed perfectly. Once that moment came, he was helpless.There would be nothing for him to hold onto, nothing for him to even see—the catch was blind, and Saoirse would be grabbing him by the ankles, not the wrists.He was completely reliant on her to catch him, and she was completely reliant on him to let go of his bar at exactly the right moment, and between all of that was physics that neither of them understood but blindly trusted—rules of momentum that had carried them this far, but could betray them at any moment.

From there, the two of them would swing together once, and then she would drop him.He’d plunge twenty feet down, completing two full rotations in the air, and ultimately find Ansel, who would swing on the lower bar, waiting to catch him around the wrists.

There was no room for error.Even with a net, falling and landing at the wrong angle could break his neck.He would be perfect, or he would be dead.

Timothée grabbed his bar and took a few steps back, ready to take off, when he heard a voice from below scream, “Stop!”He dropped the bar and peered over the edge of the platform.

Ansel stared up at him, his eyes wide, his neck blotchy and red.“We’re not doing this!” he called.

“Why not?” Timothée called back, more irritated than actually concerned.Eventually, he’d get Ansel on board, he knew that, but the impending argument was surely going to be time-consuming and tedious. 

Ansel paced back and forth on his platform, not even looking at Timothée or Saoirse.“You know why not!It’s stupidly dangerous, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

Timothée looked down at Luca, who was sitting in one of the audience seats below.He looked up at Timothée and shrugged as if to say, _let him get it out_.Then, Timothée glanced over at Saoirse, hoping for some sort of resistance, but she just sighed and climbed back up on the platform, tilting her head towards Ansel and mouthing to Timothée, _come on_.

He followed her lead, meeting Ansel on the lower platform.Before he could even open his mouth, Ansel started talking again, his words quick and breathless

“I hope you didn’t come down here to convince me, because you’re not going to.We’re not doing this.It’s stupid and unnecessary and—“

“It’s not unnecessary,” Timothée said, trying to keep his voice even, calm, trying to seem reasonable and level-headed where Ansel was hysterical.“It’s completely necessary, we need something new.”

“We can come up with something else new.It doesn’t need to be this,” Ansel spits.

“It does!It’ll look amazing—“

“It’ll look terrifying.”

“That’s a part of the thrill.” 

“Have you ever considered that some audience members don’t want to die of heart attacks during our show?”

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to maintain his composure for much longer if he kept going back and forth with Ansel, Timothée turned to Luca.“Can you please back me up here?”

Luca throws in hands up in surrender. “You three can sort this out, I’m not forcing anyone to do anything that they feel unsafe doing.”

“Ansel isn’t even the one at risk!” Timothée countered, the words coming out acerbic and fiercer than he expected.“I am, and I’m okay with it!”

“Yeah, and when I can’t catch you and you fall, whose fault will it be?I’m not having that hanging over me.”

Timothée shut his eyes and took a deep breath.“The first part is just me and Sersh,” Timothée said, his words slow and purposeful.He needed to reason with Ansel.“We’ve done a fall like this before, and you always catch me.”

“Not when Saoirse’s holding you by the ankles.That’s completely different and you know it.You’ll have to be the one to aim and decide when to let go, but she’ll have to be the one to actually let go—there’s way too much room for error.It’s a terrible idea, and I won’t be a part of it.”

“Ansel—“

“We can’t make him do it, Timmy,” Saoirse chimed in.She lounged against the railing of the platform, her head tilted lazily to one side.“If he’s out, he’s out.But we can keep the first part, we don’t need him for that.”

Timothée shook his head. This was not nearly the first time Ansel had tried to veto a trick he deemed too risky, and normally, all of his attempts played out in the same way.Timothée and Saoirse would be indignant for the first few minutes, arguing with him vehemently, then they would play at being understanding.Listen to him.Let him get it out.And then either completely eviscerate his argument — a tactic that was rarely successful because logic wasn’t Ansel’s strong suit — or they would make some sort of false compromise and ultimately do essentially exactly the same as what they had originally planned.So by now, Timothée knew how to win at this, and he wasn’t willing to accept defeat.He didn’t know why Saoirse was.

“No, we’re doing the second part,” he insisted. 

Saoirse eyed Timothée, but said nothing.

Timothée turned to Ansel.“If you won’t do it, then we’ll find a way to do it without you.”

Ansel scoffed.“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Okay, we’re wasting time.Let’s get to work,” Saoirse says.“Ansel, if you’re not in this, then can you get out of the way, please?.”

Ansel shook his head, but climbed down. With a huff, he plopped down in a seat next to Luca with a huff, whispering something to him that Timothée couldn’t hear.Luca shook his head and swatted at him, his eyes pinned to Timothée and Saoirse.

“Okay, so, what I’m thinking for the second part,” Timothée says, loud enough for Luca to hear, but Saoirse interrupted before he could finish.

“You were serious?” she hissed.

Timothée nodded and went on. “Saoirse will just drop me and I’ll have to just grab onto 

the lower bar, instead of Ansel catching me.”

Saoirse raised her eyebrows as she exhaled, her lips forming a perfect circle around a silent, jittery whistle.“Are you sure?”

Timothée nodded.“We can pull it off.”

Saoirse turns to Luca.“What do you think?”

He grimaces.“If you’re comfortable with the risk… It’s up to you.”This was not an atypical response from Luca.Back when Timothée had just joined the circus, barely fifteen years old, ambitious and naive, all enthusiasm and no technique--Luca had been more protective.He had outright vetoed some tricks he deemed too dangerous.But now that he was older, Luca largely left Timothée to make his own decisions regarding his safety.Nothing was off limits on the ropes or in the air, as long as it looked good.

“Let’s just try the first part first,” Saoirse decided.“That’ll be hard enough as is, we can worry about the second part after.”

Timothée nodded and climbed up to his platform. He waited as Saoirse readied herself, crawling onto her bar.He couldn’t allow himself anymore time to think about what he was doing, he knew that.He couldn’t allow himself to become afraid.There was no space for fear when he was in the air.He clenched his jaw, gripped the bar, and jumped.

He swung once, twice, three times.As he watched Saoirse expand and shrink in his vision, his throat tightened and his breathing became shallow and quick.He resisted the urge to look down.He resisted the urge to call this off.He resisted every natural instinct that told him to clutch the bar with all his might.And he let go.

He didn’t know how long he was in the air for. But while he flew, he felt the world grow small and quiet, felt time slow down.He was submerged in cool, still water, floating, weightless, tranquil.And then, Saoirse snatched his ankles, pulling him abruptly and violently out of his haze.

Her hands slipped, and Timothée’s heart leapt into his throat. There was a small, petrified squeak that could have come from either one of them, Timothée couldn’t tell. But Saoirse found her grip again, and Timothée felt her hands tighten against his ankles.They swung together, secure.

Saoirse let out a shaky breath. “Oh my god.”

Timothée nodded, his heart still pumping adrenaline through his veins.He caught sight of the lower bar.“Let’s do part two,” he said.

“What?”

“Let’s do it.We can do it.”

Saoirse let out breathless, hysterical laugh.“Fuck it.Sure.Tell me when.”

Timothée zeroed in on the bar beneath him, waited until they were at the exact angle from it that they needed. “Now.”

Saoirse let go.

Timothée zeroed in on the bar below him, the rest of the world falling away.The air whipped against his body and his stomach dropped as he extended his arms out in front of him.Then, just as he opened his fingers, the bar smacked his palms.For a moment, the force of the fall was so powerful he thought he may just whack the bar and fall right past it—there was no Ansel there as a fail-safe—but his fingers curled automatically.

Only after he was swinging safely on the bar did he feel the pain radiating from his hands.He had hit the bar with such force that it felt like he had been slapped by the bar.He grit his teeth, letting out a low hiss that mostly drowned out by Luca’s cheers, endless words in quick, excited Italian.Timothée swung over the platform, shook out his hands, and along with Saoirse, he met Luca at the bottom.

“Incredible.Incredible!” Luca said.“So exciting.Terrifying, but thrilling.Oh my god.” He pulled Timothée into a hug.“You are fearless, Timmy.Incredible.”

Timothée shook his head.“It’s all Saoirse.Seriously, she’s the one doing most of the work.”

“And then you get all the glory!So unfair,” Saoirse said, her voice pitched an octave higher in an over-the-top, feigned whine.

Luca pulled her into the hug.“Yes, of course, Saoirse, you know I’d never forget about you.We really should get your face on some posters.”He released both of them.“I want you to rehearse it everyday, so it sticks.And you’ll perform it… first show next week?In Savannah?As the grand finale.”

Timothée nodded, pride radiating from his chest and pushing his lips into a large, irrepressible smile.

“So,” Ansel coughed, his voice jolting Timothée.He had nearly forgotten that Ansel was there, awkwardly lingering outside of their hug, watching as Luca praised Timothée and Saoirse.“I’ll just come back on, after the finale, for the bow?”

Luca shrugged.“I suppose.You three can work that out yourselves, okay?Now,” he said, taking Timothée’s hands into his own, inspecting his palms.The skin was angry and red, cracked on his right hand.“Go rest, yes?Take care of these before the show.”

Timothée nodded, his cheeks aching from smiling.Just before he turned to leave, he caught sight of a large, blonde man on the opposite side of the ring.He held a rope in his hand as if he was meant to be working on something, but he just stood there, looking directly at Timothée.And when Timothée caught his gaze, he didn’t look away in embarrassment, the way most people do when caught staring..He just kept watching him.

It was the new stagehand, the one that Luca had taken on a few days ago in Fairview. Timothée never got his name.When he tried to introduce himself, the hand hadn’t responded, just stared at him, wide-eyed, as if Timothée had done something so offensive that he was too shocked to even respond.He must have hated Timothée, but for what, Timothée couldn’t say.

“Has he been there the whole time?” Timothée asked.

Luca followed his gaze.“Oh, yes.He’s supposed to be working.But I guess he was engrossed in your new trick,” he said, smiling.

“What’s his name?”

“It’s Armie.Now go rest before the show, I don’t want you worn out from today!” Luca grabbed Timothée by the shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him towards he door.

Timothée obeyed, he and Saoirse making their way out while Ansel trailed behind them silently.But just before he reached the door, he turned his head one last time, and Armie was still staring at him.

***

Over the next few days, Timothée and Saoirse spent hours perfecting their new trick.Ansel was present at some of the rehearsals, but the rest of their repertory had already been perfected—the nightly shows provided plenty of run throughs, so all that was left to do was work through any problem areas from the previous night, and at this point, those were few and far between.So Ansel wasn’t needed for most of the day.

It was strange, rehearsing without him.Ansel had been the one to teach Timothée trapeze when he had first joined the circus—when Luca had let Timothée in, despite having no experience, no skills, nothing but a charming smile, the change in his pocket, and a gnawing, desperate need to be good at something, to be special.He had taken one look at the trapeze apparatus and said to Luca: “I don’t know how to do it, but I learn fast, and I’m not afraid of heights.

Ansel, eighteen at the time, took him on as a trainee and, soon enough, a little brother.They spent everyday practicing and rehearsing together and every night hanging out, Ansel helping Timothée adjust to life on the road.Saoirse arrived a year after Timothée, coming from a circus in Ireland where she’d been flying trapeze since she was twelve.While Ansel tended to temper Timothée’s more dangerous, risky ideas, Saoirse encouraged them.It was probably due to Saoirse that Timothée eventually surpassed Ansel, became first billing, got his name and his face plastered on all the posters.

Still, Ansel had always been present in rehearsals.This was the first time that any of them had ever been outright excluded from a major part of the show.It was odd, with just two people there.

Of course, it wasn’t really just two people.Armie was always there, lurking on the ground somewhere, performing some ambiguous task.He mostly worked on stage set-up and the aesthetic aspects of the set, rather than the technical work.Luca said he had a good eye.Timothée often watched him from afar, sometimes finding him staring, sometimes finding him working.

“Just talk to him, if you’re that enamored,” Saoirse said on the second day. They were in the middle of a break from rehearsal, Saoirse hanging upside from her knees like a monkey on her bar, Timothée sitting up in his, the metal leaving deep indents on his hamstrings.

Timothée picked at a frayed section of the rope. “I’m not enamored.”

“You are.And it’s distracting you, and this is _not_ the trick to be distracted during.So go talk to him, get it out of your system.”

Timothée considered it.He was distracted, he had to give her that.Outsiders were novelties in the circus; it was an insular, confined community.He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken tosomeone new — truly spoken to them, not just shook their hand after a show and accepted compliments.

And it certainly wasn’t often that a silent, mysterious, beautiful giant joined the circus.He was curious, that was all.Talking to the man would probably dull the shininess of him, at the very least.Allow Timothée to focus.

“Fine,” Timothée said, hopping down from his bar directly onto the floor, landing on all fours. Despite being the lowest bar in the set, it was still fairly high, and he landed with a thud that made Armie’s head snap up towards him, his lips parted and eyes wide.

Timothée straightened up.“I’m fine.I do it all the time,” he called to Armie.

Armie nodded, went back to his work.

“Wait,” Timothée said, jogging over to him.“I don’t think I ever—well, I just wanted to say, um, welcome to the family, I guess.It’s good to have you here.”He stuck his hand out.

Armie stared at his hand, didn’t offer his own.He gave a tight-lipped smile.

_Okay_ , Timothée thought. _We already shook hands yesterday.Maybe he doesn’t want to do it again.Make conversation._ “Where are you from?” he tried.

Armie shook his head, gestured to the prop that he was painting.

“Oh,” Timothée said.He looked down at the prop, back up at Armie--who clearly had absolutely no interest in speaking to Timothée.The rejection sunk in to Timothée’s stomach, and he sneered.“Sorry that I took you away from whatever unnecessary task Luca has you doing.”Without lingering long enough to even see Armie’s reaction, he turned around and made his way back to Saoirse.

Armie didn’t call out to him or make any effort to stop him, so he must have gotten what he wanted.

That doesn’t seem like it went well,” Saoirse remarked, still upside down.Her face had turned red, all of her blood rushing to her head.

“He hates me,” Timothée said.

“Well, at least you know.”

That night, Saoirse and Ansel came over to his trailer, and the three of them sat cross-legged on the floor passing around a cheap bottle of bourbon they had picked up at a market just after the show.Their pajamas stuck to their bodies and their half-removed stage makeup was melting off, leaving bright, theatrical colors smeared all over their sweat-coated faces.It was the first truly hot night of the year, and it struck a sense of abandon and vagrancy into Timothée. Nothing made him feel farther from home than heat did.

Apart from Luca, Timothée was the only one in the circus to have a private trailer.He used to share with Ansel, but once people started coming to the circus simply to see him, he was offered his own space.Ansel lived in a trailer with his girlfriend, Violetta, who had been a contortionist for a couple years now, and Saoirse shared one with an aerialist named Keirnan.

The main drawback to an individual trailer was that it was considerably smaller than a shared one.There was room for a twin-sized bed, a dresser, a chair, and a single stuffed bear that currently sat in Saoirse’s lap.They all barely fit on the floor in their circle, but the privacy made Timothée’s trailer the go-to meeting place for late night, post-show shenanigans.

“Timmy got rejected today,” Saoirse said, taking a swig of bourbon and grimacing so hard Timothée thought she might just spit it out. _And she claims to be Irish_ , he thought.

“I did not get rejected.”

“You did.”

“By who?” Ansel asked, grinning.

“The new stagehand!” Saoirse exclaimed.

Timothée snatched the bourbon from her, took a sip.Perhaps he had judged Saoirse too harshly; it really was bad.“She _made_ me talk to him.And then I did, and he was awful.”

“How?”

“I was super nice,” Timothée said, aware that he was probably speaking far louder than necessary, too drunk to care.“Told him welcome to the—the fucking family, or whatever.As Luca says.”He took a sip and lay his head back against the edge of his bed, staring up at the ceiling.“And he just.Said nothing.So I said.Where are you from?And he didn’t say anything, but he pointed to whatever he was working on, basically silently told me to fuck off.Wouldn’t even say hello.”

“So mean.Poor Timmy,” Saoirse cooed.“Humiliated for all to see!”

Timothée snapped his head up.“What?We were the only ones there, it wasn’t—“

“FOR ALL TO SEE!” she insisted, and fell onto her back in a fit of giggles.She rolled onto her side to look at Ansel.“A moment of silence for Timmy’s ego.It may never fully recover.”

Ansel laughed.

“You know, it was mean.He could have at least said something.He’s been staring at me all week, now he can’t even say hello?What a creep.”

Ansel gave Timothée and Saoirse a tight-lipped, almost condescending smile.“He’s mute, you idiots.”

Saoirse grabbed the bear and threw it across the room.“He’s _what_?”

Ansel rolled onto his back, laughing.“He’s mute!He can’t speak.And he’s…slow, or something.”

“Wow,” Timothée said.“That’s a shame.”

“Are you sure?” Saoirse asks.

“That’s what everyone’s been saying.”

Timothée turned to Saoirse.“Ansel is very up-to-date on all the gossip because he has all day to lounge around and do nothing since he’s not a part of our new trick.Must be nice.”

“You know, it is.It’s nice not to almost plummet to my death every thirty minutes.”

“Well, there’s the net, but once we take that away...” Timothée teased, if only to see Ansel riled up by the absurdity of it.

“You are actually insane,” Ansel said.Timothée opened his mouth to speak but Ansel didn’t let him.“No, no, I know you were joking.But you’re still insane.”

Saoirse slapped Timothée’s arm.“Why are you not more upset by this?”

“How do you expect me to react?” Timothée asked.“So he’s a waste of a good body.Oh well.”

“ _Oh well?_ ”

“Well, he wouldn’t be the first beautiful idiot, Sersh.At least he’s nice to look at.”

***

Two days later, they had arrived in Savannah, and it was time to premiere Saoirse and Timothée’s new trick.But first: dinner.Timothée stood with Ansel and Saoirse in line at the crowded dining hall, dodging herds of bodies and hands walking near him and grabbing food.Behind him was Armie, silently loading up his plate with double-portions of everything.

“Are you two nervous?” Ansel asked.

Timothée bit his lip, felt his stomach churn.He really didn’t need to be reminded of what they were going to do tonight.“No,” he said pointedly, filling his cup up with water.He placed it on his counter while he shoveled some potatoes onto his plate.

Saoirse looked up at him.“I am, a bit.But I suppose that’s because I’m the one who has to catch you.Timmy doesn’t have to do any of the real work,” Saoirse said with a teasing smile.

Timothée rolled his eyes and elbowed her.

As the three of them turned to go to the table that Violetta had claimed for them, Timothée tried to take a sip of his water—but it splattered onto the floor.He had been shoved by something, lost control of his arm.

Timothée looked up to see what had jostled him, only to find Armie staring at him.

“Um,” Timothée said.

Armie stared.

Timothée waited for some sort of apology--a silent one would do.Armie didn’t push him particularly hard or violently, but it still seemed an odd thing to do.

But Armie just turned away.

Timothée gaped for a moment, incredulous.Armie had no reason, and no excuse, to treat Timothée so rudely.He filled up his now half-empty cup of water, and met his friends back at the table.

“Did you see that?” he hissed.

Saoirse nodded.

“Why is he like this with me?What did I do?” Timothée ranted, his arms moving wildly in annoyance.

Ansel stared at the corner of the table.“I don’t know.Maybe he likes you.”

Timothée guffawed.“Maybe,” he said, and downed his water.

Soon after, the three had to ready for their show.They put on their matching costumes, did one another’s makeup, and warmed up.But minutes before the show started, Timothée felt his stomach churn. _It’s just nerves_ , he thought, and took a few deep breaths.But after a minute of deep, slow breathing, his stomach was gurgling and the pressure in his lower abdomen only intensified, and he sprinted to the bathroom.He sat hunched over the toilet, his stomach cramping as he clenched his eyes closed.He wiped the cold sweat off of his face, and his hand came away tinted blue from the makeup. _Fuck_.There was no way he’d have time to re-do it before the show.

His stomach moaned, and ejected more of what he had eaten.He peered down at the toilet and grimaced—diarrhea.

There was a knock at the door.“Timmy, are you okay?” Luca asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Just.Just give me a minute.”What was this?Was it really just nerves?Did he have a virus?

Whatever it was, there wasn’t time for it.

“Do you need to take the night off?” Luca asked.

“No!I’m fine.Just give me a couple minutes.” He closed his eyes and willed this to stop.He could perform through pain, that was fine.But he couldn’t shit himself in the middle of the set, that was certain.

After a few minutes, Luca spoke up again. “Timmy, we’re holding curtain for you... Are you sure you don’t need tonight off?”

“No!” Timothée insisted.But he hated the idea of holding up the performance any longer.“Just--just start the show, I should be fine by the time its my time to go on.”

After maybe ten minutes his stomach calmed down, and he was able to leave the bathroom.He could hear the show from the dressing room, and he knew exactly where in it they were.Leonardo was nearly finished with his act with the lions--he was cutting it really close.There was no time to fix his makeup; he ran to meet Ansel and Saoirse backstage.

Saoirse took one look at him and started to wipe at his smeared makeup, cleaning it up the best she could with her fingers, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

“You’re okay to go on?” Ansel whispered.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you want to do the new trick, if you’re not feeling well?” Saoirse asked.

“I’m feeling fine,” Timothée insisted.He wasn’t—but he was feeling better than he had a few minutes ago.And the last thing he needed was to think about it more.He always allotted enough time before each show to get ready, warm up, and stand in the wings focusing himself for a good fifteen minutes. But tonight, he couldn’t complete that ritual.A reminder of how he broke his routine was only going to work him up even more. “Let’s do it,” he said.

A moment later, the ringleader walked onstage to thunderous applause.Timothée closed his eyes and listened to that sound, the way it rang in his ears, how it drowned everything out.

Saoirse tugged on Timothée’s wrist.“Come on,” she whispered.

The three of them made their way to places, all perched on a platform that was shrouded in darkness until their act began.He watched the audience from above as they cheered and jumped and gripped each other’s hands in excitement.They loved it; they always did.

“Our next act will take place high above our heads, so cast your eyes towards the heavens…” the ringleader said, reciting his pre-written dialogue, the same for every show.On queue, the spotlights swung up, blinding the three of them. But even has he blinked hard, his eyes adjusting to the harsh light, his smile was huge.“..and let Terrific Timothée, Soaring Saoirse, and Awesome Ansel take your breath away on the flying trapeeeeeeeze!”

And they began.

The first three quarters of their act was easy, routine, by now.The audience gasped at all the right moments, cheered at every catch, even yelped a few times.Even Timothée’s solo section, which had seemed terrifying and radical when he first came up with it, now seemed like no big deal to him.It had been rehearsed to perfection; he could do it blind.

At the end of his solo, forty feet up, when he spun down and nose-dived for Ansel, still swinging, a few audience members even screamed.But the moment Ansel caught him, the horror turned to excitement, and the people who were still sitting had stood up, jumping and cheering.

_Just wait until they see what’s coming_ , Timothée thought.

“And now, the premiere of a brand new, never before seen pass between Terrific Timothée and Soaring Saoirse!Their most dangerous trick yet, and you will all be the first to see it!”

The audience roared beneath them, and the two grinned at each other.Timothée looked down to make sure the bar he would land on was in place, and then he climbed up to the highest platform, Saoirse meeting him at the opposite one.

They both started swinging.As Timothée swung to her, he could barely hear his heart thudding over the thundering audience beneath him, and he could feel nothing but adrenaline, nothing but the muscles in his body, each one of them contracting at the exact right moment.His mind was blank—he had no use for it when his body knew these movements so well.To think was to distract himself; it was best to let muscle memory do the work.

He let go of the bar, expanded in the air, closed his eyes, and waited for Saoirse to grab him.As always, time slowed down, the audience’s cheers him pulsed, he could feel nothing but the air flying past him.And Saoirse caught him perfectly.

The crowd’s cheers were deafening.

Timothée focused on the bar below him, watched as they swung over it.He tried to tune the audience out, to see nothing but ropes and bars and empty space.“Now,” he said, and Saoirse let go.

The audience went silent, too shocked to even scream.

He fell for a long time.The world rushed past him, the air slapped against his body.He extended his hands, and with quite a bit of force, grabbed the lower bar.

It was painful.This trick always was; that was something Timothée would just have to get used to.But the pain was nothing compared the adrenaline, compared to the audience’s cheers, compared to the love he was receiving.

He met Saoirse and Ansel on the floor, and the three of them held hands and bowed.He smiled as he listened to the audience chant his name, completely butchered attempts at the French pronunciation.They loved him, they really did.

After the show, he went out to greet the audience members.He didn’t always do this, but after premiering this new trick, he wanted to meet them all, to see their awe up close.As he spoke to each one, he put on a French accent, mimicking the way his parents spoke--a French trapeze artist seemed much more exotic and interesting than a teenage runaway from rural Iowa, even if his parents were French immigrants.

“You’re incredible,” one woman said to him.

“Thank you so much.”

“You really are.It’s as if you were made just to do this.”

Timothée grinned, nodded, lapped up the praise.In a way, she was right—there was never anything else that he was good at, that he was interested in.There was never anything else that was important about him.

She stared at him, tilted her head, and asked: “Are you even human?”

And Timothée could only laugh.

 


	3. Armie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie finally felt like he was a part of something. Something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! I am not sure what to say about this chapter so I'll just say...I hope you like it.
> 
> Oh, and I did a ton of research but eventually got frustrated in the spiral of research and made things up. Apologies for anachronisms.
> 
> Fiction and stuff, obviously.

Life with _Guadagnino & Sons _Traveling Circus was a far cry from what Armie had experienced up to this point. 

For one thing, people seemed to appreciate him here, in an unassuming, casual way. He was given a job to do or saw a job that needed doing, did it, and was thanked for it. 

Armie couldn’t remember anyone ever thanking him for anything before in his life. 

The first time it happened, that night he had come to see the show, it had stopped him in his tracks. One of the other hands — the one named Dev — had looked at the way he had stacked a set of bench seats onto pallets, nodded once, and said, “Good job. Thanks.” 

He had turned and walked away, leaving Armie staring after him and feeling a warm glow deep in his chest. He got so distracted by it that someone had to shout to get his attention to start on the next task, and, red-faced, he hurried over, determined to work even harder and maybe get a second _thank you_.

For another thing, unless he was needed for something, people mostly left him alone. He was able to keep to himself, and no one seemed offended or upset with him when he sat alone in the mess tent or ducked off to his shared trailer early while others were out celebrating a show well done. His trailer-mate, another hand named Justin, let him pretend to be asleep when he got in and otherwise exist in his own bubble whenever they were there together. Even when working, it seemed enough for him to nod to show understanding, and people didn’t push him to make conversation, happy to let him work in silence.

He watched the other members of the circus interact with each other and couldn’t help the pang of longing to be able to just be so _easy_ with people. Their conversations moved quickly, jumping from topic to topic punctuated with bursts of laughter and minor, short-lived arguments. Armie could barely keep up, let alone have the time to consider what he might contribute. So he just watched, and no one seemed to mind.

In fact, he spent his first several days without talking to a single soul except for Luca, who checked in on him each night, offering him a drink in his trailer or taking a walk. While Armie enjoyed the drinks, he preferred the walking. There was something comforting about the way the night surrounded them, the serenity of the fields and roads that stretched before them with, as Luca said one night, “the possibilities of impossibility.”

Armie didn’t know what that meant, but Luca had been so quietly passionate about it that he decided to just let it take seed in his own mind until it sprouted sense.

Luca was an easy person to be with. He didn’t pressure Armie for details about his life, but was always willing to listen when Armie worked out that he did have something to say. Armie found that talking to Luca didn’t cause him anxiety, because Luca never judged him. He simply nodded, and asked simple questions without expecting immediate answers, which allowed Armie to think about things for a while before bringing them up again.

On the fourth day after he joined, he learned from Justin that the others — aside from Luca — thought that he _couldn’t_ speak rather than that he just _didn’t_. Justin called his name as he was leaving the trailer for the mess tent. Armie turned, eyebrows raised. 

“Listen,” Justin said, “I got you this.” 

He pulled out a slate board with a piece of chalk dangling from it on a string and handed it to Armie. Armie stared at it. He wasn’t sure why he was being given this, or what he was supposed to do with it. He thought maybe it was a circus thing, and that there was some ritual or expectation he didn’t yet know about. As he was about to say _thank_ _you_ and then figure it out later — maybe he could ask Luca — Justin spoke again.

“It’s just so that you can ask for things or tell me things. Since you’re unable to speak.”

Armie’s brows furrowed. _He was unable to speak?_  

“Wait — can you write and read?” Justin asked. He looked suddenly uncertain, as though he might have made a misstep.

Armie nodded, and Justin relaxed.

“Oh, good. If you couldn’t I could teach you. Or one of the others can. A lot of folks know how.”

Armie realized then that he really _hadn’t_ spoken with anyone but Luca. They must think he was mute. He had to start talking. Correct them. Shouldn’t he? Or would they be upset, embarrassed when they found out they were wrong? Would they be _mad_ at him, think he was making fools of them? Maybe they didn’t give him trouble because they thought he couldn’t help but not speak, but if they found out he could they would think he was being rude.

That’s what his mother always said: _Armand, don’t be rude. Answer someone when they are making conversation._

“All right then,” Justin said. “See you in a while.” He grinned and clapped Armie on the shoulder on his way out.

Armie stared after him, and then at the slate tablet in his hand. This _gift_ , given without expectation, a simple gesture of inclusion. His throat was suddenly full, and he swallowed rapidly, gulping at the air.  He decided to just let people think what they thought. After all, he wasn’t hurting anyone.

He had a moment of self-doubt about the decision that very day, when Timothée himself tried to talk to him.

Armie was in the main tent, painting some new backgrounds for the sword throwers. He had taken to doing these sorts of tasks in there as often as possible, indicating it was because of the space but really because he liked to watch the circus artists rehearse. Seeing how they worked out their tricks, tried different things, practiced pieces, and then put them together was fascinating. 

Well, it was mostly because of that. It was only a little because one of those artists was Timothée. Armie had learned quickly that Timothée was a _star_ , and as a star he was given a wide berth and a lot of privilege. Dev had mentioned, with a little resentment in his tone, that Timothée lived in a solo trailer, for example, albeit a tiny one. He had begrudgingly acknowledged that the kid sort of deserved it, since he was partly responsible for the repeat visitors they got each night and the word of mouth that preceded the circus to town.

Since Timothée was a star, and Armie was...just Armie, he knew there was no reason for him to actually be able to spend time with the beautiful boy. It saddened him to think that he’d once again be admiring from afar, but since he was used to it, it would be fine. He could watch the rehearsals and the performances and be satisfied with that. 

It was his place, to always be watching and never be a part. 

Which was why he was shocked when Timothée charged toward him that afternoon, waving and smiling. Then he was sticking his hand out to Armie, saying something...Armie caught the word _family_ and stared at Timothée’s hand. He was supposed to shake it, he knew that, and he _wanted_ to, but he was also scrambling to think if he should break his silence or not, and in the moment he froze.

Timothée’s smile faltered, and he drew his hand away, tucking it behind his back as though he were ashamed of it. He was still talking.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

Armie’s lips parted, and he drew in a breath. _Fairview_ , he said in his head. _The town we were just in. What about you? How long have you been with the circus? How did you learn to do all of that? Aren’t you afraid to fall? I’d be afraid to fall. I’m afraid of a lot of things. This conversation, for example._

He swallowed around a dry tongue and shook his head, waving his hand and trying to apologize without words, ask for patience. If Timothée could just give him a second, he could answer. The hell with what everyone else thought, Timothée didn’t think he was mute and he _wanted_ to talk to Timothée.

Timothée’s open expression was rapidly closing, however. Armie recognized that look. It meant someone was deciding he wasn’t worth the effort. “Sorry that I took you away from whatever unnecessary task Luca has you doing,” he said, his voice bitter. Then he whirled around, his curls flying, and stomped back to the trapeze apparatus.

_Wait,_ Armie said in his head. _I like your hair_.

After that, playing mute became easy. No one expected him to speak, and so he just...didn’t. He could continue to be left alone, and live quietly and under the radar, and it was a relief. He tried not to think about the fact that it meant he would never actually talk to Timothée. After all, if talking to Timothée was impossible, then there always remained the possibility that if he did, it would be amazing. Maybe that’s what the _possibilities of impossibility_ meant.

Luca did not approve with his decision to stay mute, but agreed not to reveal his secret.

“I think,” Luca said one night, his voice gravely floating across the darkness between them, “that you are in the unfortunate habit of assuming others think less of you than they do. Maybe you should let them surprise you sometimes.”

Armie didn’t answer. Luca didn’t expect him to.

A couple of weeks later, they had rolled out of the countryside, with its tiny towns and vast farmland, and into the outskirts of Savannah. This was a city, and it bustled and moved like nothing Armie had ever seen. They would be here a week, performing every night, sometimes twice in a day. Everyone was excited, because the take from a city like Savannah would be the first big take of the summer, setting them up to purchase better equipment, better food, and maybe have a little fun.

Armie let himself be drawn in by the excitement, ride it like a wave. About an hour before the main tent would open to admit the audience, he made his way over to the elephants, thinking about how content he felt in that moment. The sun sat low on the horizon, lighting up the tents, the circus city, and the space around it with a golden glow. Performers and workers were bustling about, and there was a buzz in the air apart from the sound of cicadas, a current that seemed to connect them to one another. In the distance, he could see the growing crowds, people already milling around buying tickets and concessions and visiting the sideshow exhibits. The smell of popcorn drifted on the evening breeze. The calliope suddenly struck up a festive tune, and it made his heart beat a little faster. 

Armie finally felt like he was a _part_ of something. Something important. 

Dev had asked him to help the trainer dress the elephants for the show. This was usually something Dev himself did, but he was busy with some last-minute changes to the net rigging and so Armie had been more than happy to help wherever he could. The trainer, Steve, was glad to see him, and they got to work removing the shiny blankets and headpieces from the trunks and securing them to the docile animals. Armie liked the elephants. They were large like him, and seemed to just be happy people were paying them some attention. He made sure to pat them soothingly as he was tying the dressings, as the trainer had showed him, and enjoyed the work.

Armie paused when he encountered a pile of sequined purple material buried under the first blanket of the third trunk. He knew immediately what it was. _Timothée’s costume._ He ran his fingers over the top and down one of the legs. It was so _small_ , and Armie laid a hand on the breast, realizing how huge he was in comparison to Timothée. He imagined placing his hand on Timothée’s waist, how it would span up to his fourth or fifth rib, and shivered. 

Then he snapped out of it, raising his head and looking around guiltily. Thankfully, the trainer wasn’t looking at him, his attention fully on his beasts.

But what was Timothée’s costume doing here? Armie stared at it in confusion. It should have been in the performer’s dressing tent along with the other freshly laundered costumes, ready to be worn that evening. Instead, it appeared to have been packed in with the elephant blankets when they left the last stop, if the smell attached to it was any indication. 

Who would have made a mistake like that?

He carefully shook out the costume as best he could, brushing dust off of it and letting it get some air. He wrote a quick explanation to the trainer on his slate and then took off at a jog for the dressing tent. There were only twenty minutes or so before the show would begin, and Timothée would need his costume.

When he arrived, the air was full of chatter and laughter as the performers fixed each other’s hair and makeup and fastened each other into elaborate costumes. But one voice rose over the others.

“And what am I supposed to do, exactly? Swing around in my fucking drawers? Someone better find it or else I’m not going out tonight, and you’ll have to risk people asking for a refund.”

Timothée paced back and forth in the three-foot space in one corner of the tent. The expression on his face was murderous, and if blood could actually boil, steam would have been coming out of his ears. Saoirse and Ansel were at his side, trying to calm him down. Luca stood to the left, his arms folded across his chest, looking frustrated. Armie hesitated, sliding behind a rack of garments and ducking down slightly. He knew they were talking about the missing costume, and he should just show them he had it, but the tension in the air made him pause, nerves rippling.

“We can find something else,” Saoirse said. “You could wear Matthew’s costume — it’ll fit okay and there’s enough time between the contortionists and the trapeze that he could lend it to you.”

Timothée made a face and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Ansel said. “When was the last time you saw it?”

“When I dropped it off for laundry after the last show like always,” Timothée snapped. 

“Are you sure you didn’t miss it on the racks?” Saoirse asked. “Maybe—“

“It’s not there,” Timothée said. “I looked. I looked everywhere, including on the ground underneath. I asked the laundress. She couldn’t even remember seeing it but said she might just be forgetting. It’s _nowhere_.”

“Check your trailer,” said Ansel. “I bet you forgot to drop it for laundry and just brought it back there.”

Armie looked at the material in his hands. If he brought Timothée the costume, would they think it was _Armie’s_ fault it was missing? Timothée was so angry.

In fact, he looked like he was about to punch someone — possibly Ansel — and Luca held up his hands.

“Timmy,” he said, “please calm down.”

“But—”

“It seems you’ve been careless with your costume. There isn’t time to fully fix it tonight, clearly.” Luca’s voice was quietly reproachful. From his position behind the clothing, Armie winced. Luca was so accepting and supportive, to hear his displeasure was enough to send a chill through his bones.

“I wasn’t careless,” Timothée insisted, “I did exactly what I always do. Someone else was careless.”

“Whatever the case, for now you’ll have to make do with a borrowed costume. You won’t be sitting out — that is unacceptable, and I expect more from you. After the show, you will speak to the laundress about making a new costume. It will come out of your pay.”

“But Luca—”

“Enough, Timmy.” Luca didn’t yell, but the words were sharp. He turned and strode out of the tent away from where Armie was standing.

Timothée whirled in Armie’s direction, his fists curled by his thighs. Armie expected to see anger there, but instead, he caught the trembling of a lip, lines around the eyes, a slight flaring of the nostrils...Timothée was _upset_.

Armie stood and emerged from his spot, desperate to do something to fix it, make it better, even if they thought he had somehow been responsible for it in the first place.

Timothée’s eyes snapped up to his face, and then down at his hands, which were holding the costume out as an offering. His mouth dropped open, and his face lit up.

“My costume! Where did it come from? How did you—” He grabbed at it, shook it out, and then wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, it smells awful.” His gaze flickered back to Armie, and then his eyes narrowed. “Where did you find it? I mean...if you can…” He trailed off, and shot a look over his shoulder at Ansel and Saoirse.

Armie thought about answering, but then remembered his slate. He plucked it off of his belt and held it up, still bearing the note to the trainer. _Found Timothée’s costume in the trunk with the elephant blankets, bringing it to him._

Timothée peered at it for a second, and then looked back at Armie. That worried look was back on his face.

“What?” he asked.

“With the elephant blankets?” Ansel asked from behind. “What was it doing _there_?”

Armie shrugged, trying to indicate that he was helpless to provide more information.

“Timmy, you must have dropped it with the blankets on the way to the laundress,” Saoirse said.

“Don’t you think I would have noticed, if it was the only thing I was carrying?” Timothée snapped. “And why didn’t Steve or whoever put the blankets away notice?”

“You know how chaotic it is sometimes. It could happen to anyone,” Ansel said. “What matters is you have it back.”

“Yeah. I — god, it stinks. But it’s better than not having it.” Timothée turned back to Armie. “Hey, thank you for finding it and bringing it to me.” He gave Armie a small smile, then reached out and patted his arm.

Armie nodded, his breath huffing out at the touch and the smile. 

Then the three moved away, Timothée chattering about finding Luca to let him know as he began to shed his clothes and don the costume. Armie backed out, knowing that they weren’t giving him another thought, but also feeling, once again, that warm glow.

Timothée had thanked him.

* * *

It was the next day at noon when Saoirse approached him over lunch. She slid onto the bench across from him with a big grin, and he paused with his roast beef sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “Listen, a group of us are walking into the city today.”

He put his sandwich down and frowned, trying to think why she was telling him about this.

“I was thinking you might want to come along. See the sights and smell the smells and taste the tastes. The show went so well last night and practice was so smooth this morning that we can afford to take the afternoon. Luca will probably let you go too, if you ask.” She blinked at him hopefully.

Go into Savannah? With a crowd of people? To...see things. On the one hand, Armie wanted to go. He wanted to see the city, _any_ city. He wanted to continue to be a part of things. He wanted to spend time with— 

Saoirse sighed. “Timmy is appreciative that you found his costume. He’d like to show his thanks in some way. But he thinks you don’t much like him, so he’d never ask. I know you’re just...quiet. Though Timmy is a right bastard sometimes, he _is_ a good soul.”

Armie smiled, his lips curving up involuntarily at the description. He thought of the night before, when Timothée’s anger had parted for a moment, showing his distress. He thought about the day Timothée had come to welcome him to the circus. Yes, he was sure that, underneath his bravado, Timothée was good.

“Well,” Saoirse said, rising from her seat, “think about it, at least. We don’t bite. If you decide to join us, just come on out front of the main tent in about an hour.”

Armie nodded, and she grinned at him. Then she reached across the table and ruffled his hair. He watched her bounce off, his mouth open. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had _ruffled_ his _hair_. He was too tall and too big for that sort of thing.

Could he really go into the city with them? His stomach flipped in anticipation, either excitement or dread, he wasn’t sure. If he went with them...what would he do? He couldn’t talk to anyone, it was far too late to break his silence. He wouldn’t be able to explain it. He could watch, follow. 

He considered it for an hour, and then at the last second decided to go. He dropped the rag he had been using to polish the brass on the calliope and strode towards the main tent, his jaw set in determination. He was going to do this. Participate. Be a part of things.

His determination carried him around the corner, and then fled as soon as he saw the group. It wasn’t a large group, maybe twelve people. He saw Timothée talking to Kiernan, one of the bareback riders and aerialists. She had her arm around his neck and was laughing. Ansel was there, as were a couple of the clowns, the lion tamer, and the entire contortionist family. He didn’t see any other stagehands.

His steps halted, and he backed up quickly, sweat trickling down his neck that was only partially the result of the mid-day Georgia sun. What was he thinking? He didn’t belong with this group. No matter how nice they were to him, he wasn’t one of them. He would stick out like a sore thumb and feel just as annoying to their carefree state.

He turned and trudged back to the calliope, where he picked up the rag once more and got back to work. Here. He fit in right here, doing his job. He didn’t have a right to expect anything more.

His mood lasted until Justin asked him to help care for the lions in the tamer’s absence. He followed Justin’s instructions carefully, tossing meat into the cages and marveling at how the felines slunk to them, their eyes never leaving him as he backed away. Before the circus, he had never seen such incredible animals up close, and he watched in wonder as they took the meat gently between their teeth and moved away, their muscles bunching and extending before seeming to melt into a contented puddle to gnaw on the beef.

The day got even better when Oscar asked him for help exercising the horses, as the elephant trainer had passed on word that the animals seemed to like Armie. He grinned throughout the rest of the afternoon, putting the majestic animals through their paces, nickering at them and patting their noses in appreciation. 

Once it was time to begin safety-checking the equipment for the evening show, Armie had shaken off the lost opportunity of the visit into the city and was content once more, humming a tune in his head as he tightened the bolts on the trapeze apparatus. He just checked the ground connections and the net rigging, not climbing up into the upper levels. Technically, Justin was the one who did the final check of the entire structure, with Dev doing one after the day’s rehearsals, but Armie had taken to doing a small one of his own in between.

It just made him feel better.

He had just finished making sure the last pole was secure when he spotted movement on the other side of the tent. Saoirse was running from the performer’s tent through to the main entrance, weaving behind the audience seating. He raised his hand in a wave — not quite knowing why but feeling committed once he had started — but she didn’t look his way. She continued out the main entrance without noticing him.

The group must have been back from Savannah. He wondered how their day had gone.

An hour later, he was back helping the elephant trainer with the dressing again, when he heard his name in a familiar voice. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Timothée trotting towards him, curls bouncing. He quickly finished tying off the blanket, patted the elephant’s flank, and turned around. Timothée was watching him, and he wiped his forearm across his forehead, hoping he wasn’t as covered in grime as he felt. 

“Hi, Armie,” Timothée said, smiling. “Did you find my costume again?”

Armie frowned, shaking his head. _No_ , he thought, _it couldn’t be missing again._

But Timothée was laughing. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m only joking with you. Because of yesterday. So, um…” He bit his lip and stuck his hand in his pocket.

He was shy, Armie realized. He didn’t think Timothée was ever shy, but in that second, he could see it clearly from the slight flush on his cheeks and the way he was scuffing his boot in the dirt. Armie wanted to say something, to reassure him. But what?

“I just wanted to say thank you again. You saved my hide last night. Luca was...not happy with me. He still isn’t, because I think he thinks I somehow was responsible for losing — which I wasn’t — I don’t know _how_ — it doesn’t matter.” He laughed again. “Sorry, I’m trying to say thank you. I got you something in town.”

He drew his hand out of his pocket and held out a small, paper wrapped square.

“Take it,” he said. “I didn’t know what you liked, but this is this new thing and people really like it so I took a chance.”

Armie reached out and took the package, his fingers brushing across Timothée’s palm. He opened it slowly. Inside was a golden brown, flat rectangular piece with irregular edges. It had a shine to it, and a series of bumps that looked like...Armie brought it up to his nose and sniffed...peanuts.

“It’s called peanut brittle,” Timothée explained. “I had some while in town and it’s really good. Sweet, but a little bit salty and...well. I hope you like it.”

Armie looked up, took in Timothée’s shining, hopeful expression, and grinned.

“Good,” Timothée said. “Grand. Well. I have to get ready for the show. Enjoy it.”

He turned and darted away, and Armie watched him go. His heart was beating quickly, and he couldn’t stop grinning. Timothée had thought of him. Had brought him a present. He took a tiny nibble from one corner, grinning wider at the sweet, nutty taste.

The show that night was even better than the night before. The taste of peanuts lingering in his mouth, Armie jumped in to what was now the routine of assisting the show from behind the scenes. He hauled out props and sets, helped with costume changes, and did whatever else was needed.

Tonight, because of his work with the animals that day, Dev asked him to assist the trainers in getting the beasts back to their stalls. Which was why, for the first time since he joined, he was out of the tent during the trapeze performance. He wanted to watch, but what could he do? He was needed.

When he entered the performers’ dressing tent after securing the horses, he heard Timothée cursing. He found him sitting on a stool off to the side, Saoirse and Ansel leaning over him.

“Just stop hovering and get me a bandage,” Timothée spat at them. “It’s fine. It’s not that bad.”

“Timmy, you bled yourself all over the bars,” Saoirse said. “And now you’ve got chalk in it. I swear I don’t even know how you managed to hang on. Let me at least—”

“A bandage,” Timothée said. “It will be _fine_.”

_What happened?_ The words were on Armie’s lips as he rushed forward. Timothée was hunched over his hand, which was covered in blood. 

Without thinking, he stepped in and grabbed Timothée’s wrist, pulled his hand up and angled it towards the lantern. It was a puncture, not a gash, but it looked deep. He pulled Timothée to his feet and hauled him out of the tent.

“Hey, wait,” Timothée protested. “What are you doing?”

Armie took him all the way into the mess tent without answering. For some reason, Timothée went quiet and let himself be led by the wrist, stumbling behind. When they reached the mess tent, Armie shoved Timothée down onto a bench and went behind the mess line. The cooks, who were preparing a post-show meal, nodded to him and let him through. He picked up a clean towel from the stack in the corner, the first aid trunk from beside it, and dipped a cup into a pot of boiling water before heading back out to where he had left the boy.

Timothée said nothing has Armie set the steaming cup on the table and rolled up Timothée’s sleeve. But he yelped when Armie dipped the towel into the water and pressed it to his palm.

“What in blazes are you doing?” he asked, breathing hard. “That’s hot!”

Armie ignored the protest and continued to clean the area. When the water had cooled enough that it wouldn’t burn, he poured the remainder of it over Timothée’s hand and then blotted it dry. Timothée had settled back down and waited quietly while Armie opened the first aid trunk and rifled through it, looking for what he needed.

“I don’t know what happened,” Timothée said, as Armie tore off a length of bandage. Armie glanced up at him, a question in his eyes. “I was climbing up to the top platform, like always,” Timothée said. “There was...a nail, I think. Sticking out of where I usually grab the pole. I don’t know what it was doing there, but I guess it came loose or something from somewhere, because it went right into my hand. Hurt like the devil.”

Armie nodded, wrapping the bandage around Timothée’s hand and checking to be sure it wasn’t too tight.

“I managed to finish the set but…” he trailed off a second, then squared his shoulders. “It’ll be fine. If I could perform with a bleeding hole in my hand, I can perform through anything. Think you can make the bandage thinner?”

Armie raised an eyebrow as he tied it off. Timothée flexed his hand and made a fist.

“Right. Well...I’ll see about redoing it during practice tomorrow. Maybe I won’t even need it. It didn’t look that bad, right?” He looked so hopeful that Armie shook his head in confirmation. It didn’t look too bad, once the blood was washed away. Just a small opening. And if Timothée could move his hand, it was probably a clean puncture.

“Thanks. Again.” He smiled. “How do you know how to do that? With the...water? Never mind. But thanks.” 

Timothée backed away with a sheepish smile. Armie watched him go, and then frowned.

Was it just him, or did it seem that things were... _happening_ to Timothée this week? There was the missing costume, and now this nail that...shouldn’t have been there. Armie hadn’t checked up at the top. But Dev and Justin should have. Unless it had popped free after the final check. But how? 

He was probably imagining things. Timothée certainly wasn’t the only person to get injured in the shows, it was a daily occurrence. Minor cuts and bruises, sometimes someone would land wrong and limp for a day or two. It happened. The circus was a dangerous business.

* * *

On the night of the final Savannah show, everyone was in excited. Every performance had been packed, and there were often lines of people trying to get in for half-price “standing room.” Luca was thrilled, and declaring to everyone who would listen that the entire troupe was getting a bonus, which contributed to the high spirits.

Since the night Armie had helped Timothée bandage his hand, he hadn’t missed a single trapeze performance. Timothée had bounced right back. One of the local area doctors who had been at the show had looked at his hand again that night, put some ointment on it, and told him to watch for stiffness. She had also recommended that someone look at the nail to determine if it was rusty. Saoirse had immediately climbed up and declared that it was not, and the doctor seemed satisfied.

As Armie stood just inside the main tent that night during the act, sticking close to the wall, he felt a certain amount of pride. He really and truly had become a part of the circus, had started to think of it like it was partially _his_ , and that he was responsible in some measure for its success. Maybe he was. After all, he worked hard. What he did had an impact, in more ways than one.

The ringleader announced the trapeze artists, and the spotlights swung up to the rafters. Armie smiled, watching the three wave and greet the crowd. The act began as it always did, with Ansel and Saoirse making pass after successful pass, looking like it was the easiest thing in the world to fling your body across open space with nothing but faith in your equipment or your partner to rely on.

Dev and Justin came to stand beside Armie. He glanced at them and smiled in greeting.

“Looking good tonight,” Justin said, gesturing upwards.

“They look good every night,” Dev said. “Luca’s right. That act is our number one moneymaker.”

“Maybe,” said Justin. “The bareback riders got a huge response this week. Kiernan’s newest tricks are being talked about in town, and they’ve started letting the kids come out to pet the horses for a fee. She’s a smart one, that girl.”

“Yes, we know. Your lady is the finest performer here,” Dev teased, elbowing Justin. 

The crowd gasped as Timothée spun from the highest bar and then released, plummeting straight down to Ansel’s waiting grip.

“That bastard is fearless,” Dev said. “He scares even me with the things he pulls. He’s been lucky, in my opinion. Always pushing for more. One of these days it’s going to come back to bite him.” 

Armie watched Timothée fly, thinking you could barely tell that he had hurt his hand, with the way he whipped overhead, during performances and during practice, not faltering or hesitating at all. Armie’s heart still sat firmly in his throat at every swing and flip, but he was getting used to the fact that Timothée did seem completely fearless.

Ansel and Timothée retreated to their respective platforms, waving at the screaming crowd. Then Timothée looked across at Saoirse, who nodded, grabbed the fly bar, and swung off into the air. Timothée seemed to look down suddenly as she jumped, right at Armie, and nodded again.

“All right, you ready?” Justin asked. 

“ _He_ seems to be, at least,” Dev said. “God, I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

The two pushed away from the wall and ran forward towards the apparatus. Armie watched, confused, when they reached the net rigging and began to work with it. Then, as he realized what they were doing, he stepped away from the wall, running a few paces forward. The ringleader’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a special treat for you tonight,” he cried. “Terrific Timothée and Soaring Saoirse will be performing their final stunning, death-defying feat _without a net_!”

The net fell to the floor with a _whumpf_ , and Justin and Dev backed away from the apparatus. Up on the platform, Ansel was waving his hands in the air in Timothée’s direction, but Timothée either didn’t see him or was refusing to acknowledge him.

_No,_ Armie thought, his pulse racing. It was no good. Too risky. Even with a net, the trick was dangerous. Timothée could get hurt. Could be _killed_. No bandage would fix that.

But what was he supposed to do?

He hung back and watched as Timothée launched off of the platform. He held his breath during the first part of the trick, which went smoothly. Saoirse grabbed Timothée’s ankles. She seemed to be saying something to him, but it wasn’t clear what. 

Armie saw Timothée’s mouth form the word _now_ and then he was falling through the air, rushing towards the lower bar.

_He can catch it,_ Armie thought. _He does it multiple times a day. Nothing different about this, he never needs the net even when it is there. He can catch it, he can._

Timothée reached the bar, his arms outstretched. There was a second, as his fingertips seemed to make contact, that the world froze in place. Sounds halted as though a conductor had silenced an orchestra with a flick of his baton, the edges of images crystalized and sharpened, and the air turned to glass. In that moment, Armie’s rapid cycle of thoughts stalled on the word _catch_ and it echoed around him like it was etched on the glittering frame that surrounded the scene. 

Then everything moved again. There was a roaring in Armie’s ears, the world was a blur of color, light, and sound…

...and the bar was dancing crazily to the left, out of Timothée’s grip, while he continued to plummet toward the ground.

Armie was running before he even realized what had happened, before Timothée’s body had disappeared into the darkness below the spotlight’s beam, before the crowd started screaming around him. He dimly heard Saoirse and Ansel shouting, and the ringleader trying to calm people down, telling them to remain in their seats.

Armie ignored all of it and skidded to his knees in the dirt, next to Timothée’s still, crumpled form.


	4. Timothée

It felt like ages that Timothée was lying on the ground, alone, motionless, while the world screamed around him.

He didn’t remember hitting the ground.He could remember falling, could remember the shrieks from the crowd, already blaring as he plummeted towards the earth that, somehow, impossibly, amplified.But as deafening as they were, they were no match for the pounding in his own head, the ringing in his ears, the screeching pain radiating from his leg, from his skull.The pain was so severe that he would have howled in it, if he could even get himself to breathe, if he could find the energy to even move.

How long had he been lying here for?Was no one going to help him?Was he supposed to stand up on his own, help himself?He couldn’t.Were they all just going to leave him here?

“Oh, God, no,” Ansel wailed from somewhere, his words interrupted by loud, racking sobs.“No.Oh, God. Is he dead?Oh, God.”

I’m not dead!Timothée wanted to scream.Someone help me!I’m not dead, don’t leave me here!But he couldn’t even talk.

And suddenly, there was someone talking to him, kneeling over him.When did he get there?And Timothée was no longer smothered into the dirt floor; he was staring up at the ceiling, at the red and white colors bleeding and swirling together—someone had rolled him over onto his back, he realized.When had that happened?Timothée felt as if he had only blinked, how could so much have happened so quickly?

“Timmy,” the voice said.“You’re okay, you’re okay, just breathe, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

Timothée didn’t recognize the voice, he had never heard it before.Who was this? He tried to force his eyes to focus, to find the source of the sound.But he blinked slowly, and it was torture to force his eyes back open.Once he did, he could still only see a blur: blonde hair, blue eyes, a body so much larger than this own.Armie.

Armie was talking?

“I need to pick you up,” he said.

Timothée let out a tight, strangled whimper.

“I know,” Armie said softly.“But I need to.”

Armie was careful and gentle as he pulled Timothée’s shoulders up so he could hold his torso,but even that small motion ignited a more fiery and biting pain than Timothée had ever felt before.There was no room to breathe around it, and he heard a low-pitched, choked off squeak rumble from his throat.

Armie winced.“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.Almost done.”

And he put his other arm underneath Timothée’s knees and began to lift him up, and the pain must have been too much for Timothée to endure, because time leaped forward.Timothée found himself being carried by Armie out of the tent, vomit—whose vomit?—covering both himself and Armie.

_My costume,_ he thought distantly.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re fine, you’re fine,” Armie was saying, over and over and over, in a way that made Timothée think that Armie was trying to comfort himself just as much as Timothée.“Everything is going to be okay, you’re fine, you’re okay, it’s okay.Someone will take care of you.It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.It was pain beyond anything Timothée had ever endured, and with every step Armie took, every tiny, accidental jostle that accompanied it, it pulsed.And Timothée had never felt this helpless, this vulnerable, and all he wanted was to beg Armie, please help me, please make it stop, but all he could do was grip the fabric of Armie’s shirt with as much strength as he could muster and hope that the message came across.

“I know,” Armie said.“I know.”

And Timothée finally gave in to his exhaustion and let himself close his eyes.

 

***

Timothée awoke alone, to a silent, dark room and a headache.He blinked against the narrow sliver of orange light that escaped through his curtains, and tried to orient himself.He was in his trailer, he knew that much—but how did he get here?What time was it?And why did his body feel so stiff, so sore, as if he had—

Oh.The fall.Yes, he remembered now.He remembered so clearly that he promptly stopped remembering.No need to think about that.No reason to relive that terror.

But he didn’t need to reminisce on that experience to know that the fall was quite large.Quite painful, quite severe.The type of fall that he couldn’t just shake off.The type that had consequences.

And a new terror set in: What was wrong with him?

He tried to lift his head from his pillow, just to get a better sense of what his injuries were, but his skull felt so heavy and large that he had to drop it within a second.He touched his face, and found it puffy and swollen, as if it were covered in bruises.Dizzy now, he looked to the right, to see that he wasn’t alone.

Armie sat in a chair only a few feet from the bed, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, eyes comically wide, as if he were staring not at Timothée, but at his ghost.And before Timothée could ask him anything, Armie stood up and scurried out of the trailer.

Okay, then.

He wasn’t alone for very long.After a minute or two, Armie returned, leading in Luca and the doctor.Ansel and Saoirse both popped their heads in, but before they could get any farther, Luca pushed them out, as if he was controlling a pair of rambunctious children.

“No,” he said.“You can come in when we’re done speaking with the doctor.”

And they disappeared.

The doctor crouched by the bed, looked Timothée in the eye.“You going to stay with us, this time?”

Timothée licked his lips.“What?”

“You woke up a few times today, then fell back asleep after a few minutes.Do you feel up to talking, or do you need to rest more?”

“I can talk,” Timothée whispered.

“Great,” the doctor said.She stood up and gave him some space.

Luca placed a hand a Timothée’s shoulder, looking down at him with a stony, unreadable expression. “How are you feeling?”

And because Timothée was consistently unable to act like a normal, functional human being, he responded: “How do you think?”

Luca grimaced and backed away from him.  
“I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain,” the doctor said, her voice soft and sympathetic.“I’m Doctor Gerwig.I helped you with that cut on your hand a few days ago.”

“Okay,” Timothée said.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

Timothée couldn’t even look her, or Luca, in the eye when he said, “I fell.”He wanted to disappear underneath the blankets, to sanitize everyone’s mind so they could figure that moment.

“It’s a good sign that you remember.You hit your head pretty hard, so I just need to give you some tests.Just ask you some questions, really.”

And so she did, while Luca stood over him and watched.She asked mostly easy questions—exactly how much he remembered, who the president was, a couple of basic math questions. Then she asked about his symptoms: a headache, dizziness, a bit of nausea.

“Well, I don’t think you’re brain-damaged,” she said.“Seems like you just have a concussion—a pretty severe one, though.You’ll have a pretty bad headache, might have some trouble with memory, be a little confused… It’ll be fine in a few weeks, though.The best thing you can do is get a lot of rest.”

“Okay…” That didn’t sound too bad.

“Your left leg is broken in three places,” Doctor Gerwig said, her voice objective, matter-of-fact.

Timothée inhaled sharply, and reached down to feel his leg.There was a cast that covered the top of his thigh, and when he tried to move, he discovered it extended all the way down to his toes.

“It’s a bad break, so I want you on bed rest for the next two weeks or so.You’ll wear the cast for the next couple of months.After that, it’ll take a little while for you to build up your strength to walk again.With a break like this… you might have trouble walking, even when it’s fully healed.We’ll just have to wait and see about that.”

Timothée, really, couldn’t care less about a limp.In fact, a boy who couldn’t walk properly but could do trapeze… that might be interesting.That could draw people in.But if this injury permanently crippled him so that he could no longer fly…

“And what about trapeze?” Timothée asked.“I’ll be able to go back to it, after I’ve finished recovering, right?”

Doctor Gerwig grimaced.“It’s hard to say this early on.There’s a reasonable chance that you won’t be able to go back to it.”

Timothée swallowed.“Well, I will, if I work hard.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there, yes?” Luca said.“For now, just focus on getting better.”

“But this is a part of getting better.”

“It’s not something that you have to think about for a few more months,” Doctor Gerwig said.“We won’t know until then, so try not to worry about it right now.”

Timothée looked at Luca for some type of reassurance, but Luca’s face was blank.

Doctor Gerwig held up a bottle.“For for pain, you’ll have one drop of laudanum, every three or four hours.Don’t overdo it, okay?I know a lot of people use this pretty casually, but… be careful.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have any questions?” Doctor Gerwig asked him.

Timothée shook his head.

“Alright, then.If you think of anything, just let me know.I’ll come back tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

The moment Doctor Gerwig walked out the door, Ansel and Saoirse came bounding in like puppies.Ansel spoke far too quickly to be comprehensible and stood over Timothée, waving his arms as if he didn’t know where was safe to touch.Soairse stood back, expressionless.

“Oh my god,” Ansel said.“When you fell, it was so… Everyone’s been so worried.We didn’t know if you’d be okay.We thought… we thought you might die.”

“I’m okay, Ansel.I swear.”

“Thank God.It was so scary, I can’t believe—“

“So you had Dev and Justin drop the net,” Luca said, effectively shutting Ansel up.

Timothée went through his options.He could lie, maybe.Say that Dev and Justin decided on their own to drop the net without telling Timothée.But no one would believe that.There was no option but the truth.

And Luca wasn’t really asking, anyway.

“You do realize that the net is there for a reason, right?” Luca drawled sarcastically.

“Yes,” Timothée mumbled.So here it was: the lecture, the anger, the shame.Luca wasn’t even going to give Timothée time to adjust to everything he just found out.And what could Timothée do, trapped in this bed?He couldn’t even flee, the way he had as a child.He could only endure it and wait for it to end.

“So would you like to explain to me what you were thinking?”

Timothée sighed, stared up at the ceiling.His eyes stung.“I thought it would be… dramatic.”

“Well, it was dramatic,” Luca said, huffing out a humorless laugh.“Not in the way that you’d hoped.He sounded so condescending, so acerbic.Timothée had never heard him speak that way before, not to him, not to anyone.It burned.

“I didn’t think that I was going to fall.I thought it would be fine—we’ve never needed the net before, I never mess up.”

“But you did mess up.You didn’t catch the bar.”

“I did!”

It was true.He remembered it clearly.Grabbing the bar with both hands, his grip secure as his fingers curled automatically around the thick, hard, reliable wood.But it wasn’t reliable.It was slick, coated in something shiny and slippery, and Timothée’s aim may have been perfect, his timing impeccable, his grip strong, but it didn’t matter, because that grease stole the bar away from him, and he fell.

He remembered being so confused, so scared.He had done everything right, so why was it all going wrong?

“I did catch the bar,” Timothée insisted.“But it was slippery, there was something slippery on it, the stagehands must have missed it in the safety check!”

Luca stared at him, his mouth open.He didn’t seem like he was going to speak, so Timothée kept going, decided to make him understand.

“I caught it, and then there was—“  
“Are you really this incapable of taking responsibility for your actions?” Luca deadpanned.

“I—“

“We checked all the equipment after you fell.It was all fine.There was nothing on the bar.”

That couldn’t be true.Timothée remembered.

“But that isn’t really what matters here, Timmy.I’m not upset with you for falling.Everyone falls.That’s why there’s a net,” Luca spat the last word, his lip curling.“And you told Dev and Justin that I was okay with it?”

“You normally give me pretty much free reign to—“  
“I still need to know what’s going on in my show!I still need you to run everything by me!And I know the only reason you didn’t was because you knew I’d say no.”

Luca was right.He had known there’d be no way to convince Luca to go along with something so dangerous.But maybe after he’d seen it, seen the drama, the excitement, the audience’s reactions—the critic’s reactions—he would understand.

But that wasn’t how it went.

“But what’s even worse than you not telling me,” Luca went on.“Is that you didn’t even clear with Saoirse.You put her in danger, too!”  
“She doesn’t jump during that part, she just has to hang up there, so there’s—“

“Shut up,” Saoirse hissed.“There’s still a risk, and a risk that I hadn’t agreed to.”

Timothée closed his mouth, stunned into silence.Saoirse had never gotten angry with him like that before.

“You could’ve taken out my two best performers with one trick.And for what?So you could show off?” Luca bellowed.

Timothée winced, slapped his hand over the top of his head and groaned.His leg was aching, his head hadn’t stopped pounding since he woke up, and being talked at by so many people certainly wasn’t helping.And when Luca raised his voice, his brain seemed to throb.

“Okay, we should go,” Saoirse said.She grabbed Ansel’s hand and started to drag him out.

“Feel better, Timmy,” Ansel called, already halfway out the door.

The air in the room felt far more pressurized in their absence.

Luca sighed.He didn’t apologize for the pain his yelling had caused, but the next time he spoke, his voice was far quieter.“That fall could have killed you.What was I supposed to do if you had died, Timmy?”

“Put Saoirse’s face on the posters,” he mumbled, looking at the wall.

“You know what’s not what I meant.I really don’t even know what to say.I know that your parents were—“ He cut himself off, shook his head.“But I’ve had you for almost four years now, and I really thought I taught you better than this.”

Timothée closed his eyes, turned his head away from Luca.He couldn’t face him, not when he was so ashamed of him, so disappointed.

Luca, really, was the first person that had ever loved Timothée, after Pauline.The first person to believe in him, to think that he was worth something, could do something.The first person that could stomach him.

And now Timothée had let him down, betrayed him, embarrassed him in front of an audience.Timothée could only imagine what people were saying about Guadagnino and Sons now.Their perfect reputation, ruined.And Timothée ruined, too.

The one thing he was good at was gone, indefinitely.What was he supposed to do, with a broken leg?What could he possibly provide now that he was unable to fly?What was he worth?

He had spent years trying to morph into something special, something worth admiring.He was miles away from Iowa, and yet, he was there again.He was that same useless, incompetent boy who was too small, too weak, too sensitive to slaughter the animals on his family’s farm, too poor for school, too delicate, and unfortunately, too stubborn to die.He was fourteen again; he was nothing.

What use could be to Luca?What would Luca—what would anyone—want with him now?

He knew what was coming, so it was better for him to just start talking first.He wouldn’t be able to lie there and listen to Luca telling him to leave, he couldn’t bear that.

He had some money saved up.He could afford a few months rent in Savannah.Food, if he was careful.And he had become a decent thief when he first had left home.He could make something work.

“I just need some time to pack up my things, and then I’ll go.”

“What?” Luca asked.“You’re on bed rest.You’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh.Thank you.That’s very kind of you, to let me stay here for a couple weeks while I recover.But as soon as I can, I’ll be out of your way.”Timothée was shocked at the sound of his own voice.It was so formal, so overly polite, as if he had never known Luca at all.

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to say it, I know that I’m fired.”

Luca shook his head slowly.“No.”

“No?”

“No.Why would I have given you that big long lecture if I was just going to fire you?”

Timothée blinked.“So you’re not… sending me away?”

Luca stared at him, looking pained.“No, Timmy.I’m not sending you away.”

And Timothée suddenly felt the crushing weight of everything: the news that his injury might be career-ending, Luca’s disappointment, Saoirse’s anger.The relief that he was allowed to stay, despite his misstep.It all became too much hold in, and there was suddenly a bubbling feeling in his chest, and he could no longer keep his tears at bay.They pooled in his eyes, and he dared not blink to let them roll down his cheek.

Still, Luca noticed.“Timmy,” he said softly.He grabbed Timothée’s hand and squeezed it, give him a soft smile.“I know you hit your head hard, but don’t be stupid.”

Timothée laughed.Blinked the tears out of his eyes, wiped at his face.Tried to calm down.

Once he was under control, Luca turned serious again.“You’ve slept through most of the day, it’s almost dinner time.Armie will bring you your food.He’s going to be helping take care of you, giving you the laudanum, making sure you’re okay.Alright?”  
Timothée peered behind Luca to Armie, who stared back at him blankly.Had he really been in the room this whole time?He was—Timothée saw him walk in—but he had a way of disappearing into the wall.

And he had heard all of that.He had turned out not to be slow, as Ansel had put it, and he could talk.

Who would he tell?

“You won’t be getting paid for the shows that you miss.You’ll still get room and board, food, butI won’t pay you if you’re not working.”

Timothée nodded.“Okay.”

Luca and Armie left for dinner.After about ten minutes, Armie returned with two plates of food.Timothée sat up, slowly and clumsily and rested against a mountain of pillows.Armie set the plate on his lap, then sat down in a chair and began eating his own food.All of this—silently.

“I know that you can talk,” Timothée said.

Armie looked up at him, said nothing.Jesus—was he still going to keep up this act?

“You’re not mute.You talked to me after I fell,” Timothée said.Unless… he did hit his head pretty hard.He could have imagined it.In which case, Timothée was being far crueler than he intended, mocking Armie for something he couldn’t control.“I’m—Am I remembering wrong?” Timothée asked, his face heating with shame.

“No,” Armie said.“I spoke to you.”

Even with the knowledge that Armie wasn’t actually mute, his voice was shocking.Deep and rumbling, yet somehow crisp.

“Right.So you’ve been lying about being mute this whole time?”

“I wasn’t lying,” Armie said.“People assumed.Because I’m… shy.”

“And you went along with it.”

Armie stared at his lap.“You lie about your french accent,” he mumbled.

“To the masses.I don’t lie to people in the circus.”Timothée felt his heart rate speed up as soon as he said it.He did lie to people in the circus, he just admitted to lying to Luca.In front of Armie.He bit his lip and hoped Armie wouldn’t call him on it.

Armie was silent for a moment, and Timothée could hear him thinking.“When everyone thought I couldn’t speak,” Armie said finally, his worlds slow and spaced out.“At first, I was going to correct them.But the longer it went on, the more… scary that idea became.And I do have a hard time speaking, so I just thought it’d be easier to go along with it.”

“And what was the plan?To just keep pretending forever?”

Armie shrugged, stared at his lap.

“It’s just kind of fucked up.And… disrespectful to people who are actually mute.And to us!Do you realize how inefficient it is to have you not talking?”

“Sorry,” Armie said.They were both silent for a minute more, until Armie looked up.“Is the food okay?I didn’t know what to pick out…”

“It’s fine,” Timothée snapped.Armie must have put half of the food in the dining hall on his plate.“I’m not picky.I’ve been in the circus for three years, I’ve adjusted to carnie food.”

Timothée couldn’t really think of much else to say, much else to pester Armie about.The pain in his leg was distracting, and despite having slept all day, he was exhausted.And Armie, even with his newfound status as not-mute, wasn’t much of a conversationalist, so the rest of the meal was spent in silence.

Still, strangely enough, it was nice to have the company, even if that company was Armie.He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he had to eat all his meals here alone.

But perhaps Armie was only eating with him tonight.Tomorrow, he may want to eat in the dining hall with everyone else.Maybe once Armie started talking more, everyone would love him, and he would eat with his friends every night, complaining about the invalid washed-up star who he had to tend to.Perhaps Armie knew that, and tonight was only about pity.

“Are you going to eat here for every meal?” Timothée asked, his voice purposely snappish and irritated.

Armie’s eyes widened as the blood drained from his face.“I can leave if you’d rather be alone.Or I can get Saoirse and Ansel.”

As if they’d want to hang out with him.

“I didn’t say that,” Timothée said.“You can stay if you want.”

Armie stared for a second, then nodded slowly.

Once they were finished eating, Armie gave Timothée his laudanum and helped him get ready for bed.Then, Armie blew out the candle and turned to leave.

“Armie,” Timothée said, when he was halfway out the door.“Good night.”

Armie froze.“Sleep well, Timmy.”

And Timothée tried to.But the moment he closed his eyes, his stomach dropped, and all he could was the bar slipping out of his fingers.And when he finally did fall asleep, his dreams weren’t any more peaceful.

***

The following day was Sunday, and they had initially planned to travel to Charleston that day.But Luca pushed the travel date until Monday.It seemed that the reason for this was that Timothée’s fall had caused so much commotion that the process of taking everything down and packing it up had been delayed.Another problem for the circus he had created.

Armie was out of the trailer for most of the day, as he had to help the other stagehands get everything ready to go.But he returned at mealtimes, to bring Timothée his food and eat with him.He was quiet and withdrawn, almost entirely unable to make eye contact with Timothée.His hands shook when he gave Timothée his lunch plate.

It was a bit pitiful.Timothée shouldn’t have lashed out at Armie for going along with what everyone thought about him.He was shy, and by the looks of it, painfully so.Timothée was shy, too.And he, too, had done stupid things to cover it up.Things far more hurtful than not speaking.

“So,” Timothée said, keeping his voice as friendly and kind as he could.“Where are you from?”  
Armie licked his lips.Swallowed.“Fairview.”

Timothée raised his eyebrows.“Fairview?” Fairview was an extremely affluent town, home almost exclusively to tobacco farmers and their newly freed slaves-turned-sharecroppers.It wasn’t the type of place a new stagehand would come from, at least, not one that looked like Armie.There weren’t any poor white people in Fairview.

Armie must have sensed his confusion.“I didn’t… fit in there.So I left.”

“Good for you,” Timothée said.

Armie nodded, gave a tight-lipped smile.

Not knowing what else to say or how to fill the silence, Timothée moved to grab his glass of water from his bedside table.But as he reached towards the glass, he knocked his bear onto the floor.Armie was up in a second, picking up the bear and placing him firmly in Timothée’s lap.

“Thanks,” Timothée said, flushed.“I know the bear is stupid.”

It wasn’t stupid, not really.But it looked that way.The bear had been Pauline’s.It was the only thing he took with him when he left home.

“I like him,” Armie said.“What’s his name?Or hers?”

“She’s a girl,” Timothée said, his cheeks on fire.“Her name is Ourse.It’s french for bear.”

Armie nodded.“So… you are french.”

“My parents are.But they moved to America before I was born.I’m from Iowa.”

“Have they seen you perform?”

Timothée snorted.“No.They don’t even know where I am.And even if they did…” He shook his head, cutting himself off before he could reveal too much.

“My parents don’t know where I am either,” Armie mumbled.His eyes widened.“I hope they don’t think I’m dead or something.”  
“Did you leave a note or anything?”

“No.It wasn’t… planned.”

“Well, you didn’t like them, right?So fuck ‘em.Let them worry.”  
That clearly wasn’t the right thing to say, because Armie just bit his lip and stared at the ground.They finished their meal in silence, and Armie went back to work.

Timothée spent the rest of the day waiting around.He had a Sunday night ritual with Luca.After dinner, Luca would stop by with a deck of cards, and they would play and talk.They had done this every Sunday since Timothée had joined the circus.Timothée knew, now, that in the beginning, this was Luca’s covert way of checking up on him.Making sure that the fifteen-year-old newbie who had abandoned his family for a completely different world was doing okay.And maybe to make him feel welcome.Wanted.

But Timothée thought—or liked to think—that Luca actually enjoyed this now.That he liked Timothée’s company and valued their private conversations.

But after dinner, Luca didn’t come by.Maybe he had more work to do.Timothée waited.

An hour passed.Maybe he was really bogged down.He’d come when he was finished.Timothée waited.

Another hour passed.Maybe he had forgotten since Timothée ate his dinner in his trailer instead of in the dining hall.He’d remember eventually.Timothée waited.

A third hour passed.Timothée was really starting to get tired, now.Maybe Luca didn’t want to come.But Timothée couldn’t stop waiting.He forced his eyes open, hummed, knocked painfully on his cast, did anything he could to stay awake.But Luca never came.

***

When Timothée awoke the next morning, the train was already in motion.He sat up a little and found Armie sitting in his usual chair, an untouched plate of food in his hands and an empty one on the floor.

“Morning,” Timothée mumbled.

“Morning,” Armie replied, handing him the plate full of food.It was cold.

“What time is it?”

“Noon.We just left a minute ago.I guess the noise woke you up.”

The noise was a roaring, ceaseless rumbling.By now, Timothée was used to it, but after hitting his head so hard just a few days ago, it sounded uncomfortably loud.And he knew it would only get worse as they picked up speed.

“Yeah, that’s going to be… Can you get the laudanum?”

Armie grabbed it and gave him a drop.

But it wasn’t enough.Within thirty minutes, Timothée was in a cold sweat, scratching at his bed sheets with one hand and covering his eyes with another.The noise felt like a knife cutting through his skull, and every time the train jostled him, his leg screamed.Armie nervously gave him another half-drop of the laudanum, but it barely made a difference.

“It’s just a couple more hours,” Armie squeaked out.He swallowed over and over, and he kept scratching at the tops of his hands.

Timothée groaned.

“Do you want some water?” Armie offered.

“No.”

“What would help you feel better right now?”

“You shutting up.”

Armie closed his mouth.And somehow, on top of all the pain, Timothée had space for guilt.

“I didn’t… You can talk.”

Armie nodded.He grabbed Timothée’s bear from where it lay forgotten on the bed, and held it out to him.“Here.Hold your bear.”

Timothée swung his arm wildly, trying to bat it out of Armie’s hand.“I’m not a child, I don’t need a fucking bear.”

“I like the bear.I never had one.”

“Oh, I’m Armie, and I never had a bear!Woe is me!”

Armie placed the bear down.“Okay… If you won’t hold the bear, then hold my hand.”

Timothée eyed him.Armie didn’t seem to be making fun of him.Timothée had thought about holding Armie’s hand, before he ruined everything by being rude to him during rehearsal.And stuck in this bed with a cast on his leg and Armie forced to wait on him… Timothée doubted Armie found him very attractive now, if he ever did.He had assumed that hand-holding was out of the realm of possibility.

“It’ll make you feel better to have something to hold onto,” Armie said.

“Okay.”

“And I can…” Armie lifted Timothée’s head up, gently, and shimmed underneath him, so that Timothée had his head in Armie’s lap.

“Oh,” Timothée said.He had expected Armie to simply sit on the chair and hold his hand from there.He felt Armie tense.“No, stay.” Timothée found his hand and squeezed it hard.

“I just thought—“ Armie put his hand over Timothée’s face, his thumb on one temple and his middle finger on the other.Then, he began to massage.

“Oh…” Timothée breathed at the instant relief.It didn’t make the pain disappear, but it certainly made it more bearable.

“My grandma used to do this to me whenever I got sick,” Armie said.

“Mmm…”

Armie went quiet, continuing to massage Timothée’s temples gently.His hand was cool against Timothée’s face, and it completely blocked out the light.And his hand was big enough to cover Timothée’s entire head…

“Keep talking,” Timothée said.“It helps.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything.Just distract me.”

Armie took a deep breath.“I’m reading Frankenstein right now. This is the third time I’ve read it.”

“What’s it about?”

“I don’t want to give it away…”

“Give it away.I’ll never read it.”

“You should.It’s good.”

“I don’t read books, Armie,” Timothée said, trying to make it seem like a choice.

So Armie went on and on about the book, telling the story in great detail, and giving away the ending.It was a good story, and it successfully distracted Timothée for the most part. But every time the train went over a bump or shook in any way, Timothée couldn’t help but flinch and whimper at the pain that erupted in his leg.Each time, Armie would squeeze his hand tight and whisper, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”It wasn’t a steady ride, especially not for the second half, and Timothée couldn’t help but cry into Armie’s leg.Armie just kept squeezing his hand tighter, talking more and more about books.When he finished summarizing Frankenstein, he started talking about some other book, Anna Karenina.

When the train finally stopped, Armie stroked his hair.“It’s done.We’re here.”

Timothée smiled weakly.

“How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted,” Timothée said, his eyes drooping closed.

Armie wiggled out from underneath Timothée and stood up.“I’m going to go tell Luca that traveling caused problems for you.”

Timothée’s eyes flew open.“What?No!”

“Why not?There might be something we can do.”

Timothée shook his head.“Just… don’t.”

“Luca will want to know if you haven’t been doing well.”

“No, he won’t,” Timothée said.Luca wouldn’t care.Why would he?He hadn’t seen Timothée since the day after he fell, he had eschewed their Sunday night ritual.He had tossed Timothée aside, and rightfully so.He was useless to Luca now.Timothée had made a major mistake, lied to Luca, embarrassed him.Whatever love or care that Luca might have had for him fell away with the net.

The information could even enrage him.Luca wouldn’t want to hear about Timothée complaining about being in pain from an injury that was his own fault.He wouldn’t want to hear yet another request to change things to accommodate Timothée.He was already angry with Timothée as it was—whining would only make it worse.

“Of course he will.He loves you.”

Timothée sneered.“How would you know?”

“Because he told me.He’s really worried about you.”

“No, he’s not.He’s angry at me.”

Armie sighed and shook his head.“He told me to keep him updated on how you’re doing.I’m going to do my job.”

And that was that.

Armie returned with a jar of some sort of salt that he was to take before each trip.It was a sedative, apparently.He asked if he could take it before bed each night, and Armie told him no.Then he placed it in the far corner of the room where Timothée couldn’t reach it.

Over the next few days, Timothée started to find himself extremely bored. Ansel visited every afternoon, between rehearsals and performances, but he was the only one. Saoirse never came by—she was first billing now, Timothée reasoned, she must have been busy rehearsing the set without him.

Or maybe she was still mad at him. Maybe she didn’t want to ever see him again.It was a difficult thought. Saoirse made him feel like he still had a sister—the idea of losing another was hard to bear.

So, she was just busy. Or that was what he told himself, at least.

Luca didn’t come by either. Timothée wondered if he ever would.

So Armie was Timothée’s only company.A week ago, the idea of having to spend all day with the dumb, mute stagehand would have sounded like torture. But Armie was sweet, soft in a way that Timothée didn’t know was possible for someone so large. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, it was usually something smart, or funny. And he still wasn’t really speaking much outside of Timothée’s trailer, according to Ansel, so Timothée didn’t have to worry about Armie gossiping about him.Didn’t have to worry about anyone finding out he cried at least once a day.

The boredom was only intensified by how much time Timothée spent awake.Nightmares kept him up, and he couldn’t figure out a way to stop them.In his dreams, he would be swinging, flying, everything going smoothly, until he grabbed the bar.He grabbed it perfectly every single time.There was never a mistake.But the bar still slipped from his hands.

Sometimes, the dream ended there, with his heart in his throat and his hands clenched tight around nothing.But sometimes the dream continued until he was the ground.Sometimes it wasn’t his leg that broke, but his neck.

And sometimes there was no bar at all, no fall.He just lay on that dirt floor, unable to move, unable to scream, waiting and waiting for help that never came.

Those dreams were the worst ones.

The dreams were almost bearable when they happened while he napped.When he woke up in a lit room with Armie at his bedside, he could orient himself and understand that he was safe.That the fall hadn’t killed him.That help had arrived, and it was sitting right next to him.But it was different at night, when he woke up alone, in darkness.And in that silent, black room, he kept falling even when he opened his eyes.He kept on tasting that dirt floor.

He wished he was the type of person who woke up screaming from nightmares.Then, at least he wouldn’t have to go through the mortifying ordeal of telling people about it in order to get help.People would just know, and they would wake him up and hold him and comfort him, and maybe he would be able to cope.

But his nightmares left him paralyzed and silent, unable to breathe, much less scream.So if he wanted help, he was going to have to ask for it.

On Thursday, at dinner, that’s what he did.

“Can you stay here tonight?” Timothée asked.

“What do you mean?” Armie asked.

“Can you stay here while I sleep?” He played with his hair to make this seem offhand.

“For how long?”

“The whole night.”

“I… is something wrong?”

Timothée shook his head.“No.”

“So… why do you need me here at night?”

Timothée shrugged.

“Well, where would I sleep, in this chair?”  
Timothée hadn’t really thought that far ahead.

“I don’t know…” Armie said, which ended up meaning no.He didn’t stay that night, or any other night.And Timothée continued to wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing, and stare at the ceiling until the sun came up.

***

The following Sunday, while Timothée and Armie were finishing up dinner, Luca poked his head in the door.

“Hi, Timmy,” Luca said.Then he turned and saw Armie.“Oh, hi, Armie.I thought you two would be done eating by now.”

“Armie’s a slow eater,” Timothée said.This was completely made up and Timothée had no idea whether or not it was true.

“Ahh,” Luca said, walking in. He held a pack of cards in his hand.“Have you two been getting along alright?”

“Yeah.”Timothée looked to Armie for confirmation.He nodded.

“Good.I thought you would.” Luca held out the deck of cards.“You ready to play?”

Timothée nodded enthusiastically.

“Armie, would you like to join us?” Luca offered.

Timothée opened his mouth, had to forcibly closet to stop himself from protesting.Luca had come back to him, brought cards, chose to spend time with him.Timothée didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.But these nights between Timothée and Luca always felt private, special.Maybe Luca didn’t view them the same way.But then why would he have honored the tradition for three years, if he didn’t value these nights, if he didn’t see them as special, too?  


Maybe he thought that special included Armie now.Maybe one day, it would only include Armie.

They always played piquet, a two-person game.With three, they’d have to play something completely different.But if Armie replaced Timothée in these games…

Timothée couldn’t keep himself from glaring.

“I should bring these back to the dining hall before kitchen staff are done for the night,” Armie said, wearing a polite smile.“Thank you, though.”

Once Armie was gone, Luca sat down in the chair by the bed and dealt the cards.They began playing, in silence for the first few minutes, save for the occasional “point of four” and “good.”

Eventually, Timothée put his cards down and turned to face the wall.

“Are you too tired to play?” Luca asked.

Timothée took a deep breath.“Why did you ask Armie to join us?”

“I was being polite.”

Was Luca really fine with violating such a sacred tradition between them, just for the sake of manners?

Timothée looked at him.“Why didn’t you come last Sunday?”

“Because you had just gotten hurt the night before.I wanted you to rest, not stay up late playing cards.”

“I stayed up late waiting for you.”

Luca sighed.“I’m sorry.I should have told you I wasn’t coming.”

“I haven’t seen you all week,” Timothée muttered.

“It’s been a busy week.”Luca squeezed Timothée’s shoulder.“I’m here now.Let’s play.”

They went back to playing while Luca caught TImothée up on everything that had happened in the past week.Saoirse’s face was on the posters, now.

“About time,” Timothée remarked.

“She said the same thing.I think she was starting to get annoyed with you getting all the glory.”

Timothée chewed on his bottom lip.Would Saoirse fight him to keep first billing when he came back?

“She and Ansel are having trouble making decisions in rehearsal, though,” Luca said. “They disagree frequently.I have to mediate.Point of four.”

“Not good.”

Luca snorted.“You’re losing.”

“I have a headache.”

“Excuses, excuses.Anyway, one of the horses got sick.Abbey.We had to shoot her last night.Kiernan was devastated.”Luca went on and on for another twenty minutes about all of this week’s drama, Timothée occasionally interjecting.Eventually, Luca said, “Can I ask you something?”  
Timothée’s heart thudded.“Sure.”

“Why did you ask Armie to sleep in here?”

Timothée’s hands froze around his cards.“How did you know about that?”

“He told me.He wanted to know if it was a part of his job.”Luca put a card down.“So why did you ask him?”

Timothée shook his head.“It doesn’t matter.”

“There must be a reason.”

Timothée stared at the cards.“I’ve been having nightmares,” he confessed.“About falling.”

“Oh, Timmy,” Luca cooed.“Have you old Armie?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe you should.If he knew what the problem was—“

“Can you tell him?” Timothée asked.If Luca could tell Armie, then surely Armie would stay.And then Timothée wouldn’t have to confess to a man he just met that he needed someone to sleep near him because he had nightmares.

“No.”

“The dreams are really bad.”

“Then tell Armie.”

“Luca—“

Luca put his cards down.“I’m serious.I want you to handle this yourself, okay?Armie isn’t judgmental, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Timothée threw his head back against the pillow.He’d have to come up with another way to deal with the nightmares.

“I know that what you’re going through isn’t easy,” Luca said.“I know you’re in pain.But it's going to be okay, alright?You’re going to be fine.”

Timothée scrubbed at his eyes.When had they become wet? 

Luca carded his fingers through Timothée’s hair.“In a few months, this is all going to seem like another life.”

“Not if I can’t fly.Greta said that was a possibility.”

“Well, Greta doesn’t know how stubborn you are.”

Timothée took a deep breath.“Luca, there was something on the bar,” he whispered, his eyes pleading.

Luca sighed and shook his head, leaning back against the chair.

“No, no, Luca!I’m not lying!There was really something there!Please,” Timothée cried.“Please, you have to believe me.I caught the bar.”

“We checked the bar, Timothée.There was nothing on it.” Luca’s voice was quietly reproachful, but it hurt just as badly as it did when he was yelling.

“Maybe it dried!Luca, I’m not lying!”

Luca took a deep breath, leaned forward.Lay his hand on Timothée’s cheek.“Okay, I believe you that you’re not lying.But… you hit your head pretty hard.Is it possible that you’re not remembering right?”

Timothée sniffled.He remembered it so clearly.But that didn’t mean anything, necessarily.He had been having dreams, every night, about the fall—some true to what actually happened, some completely far off.Could he be getting his dreams mixed up with reality?“I guess so.”

“I think that’s something you need to consider,” Luca said gently.“Greta said that the concussion would cause some confusion, some memory issues.You need to keep that in mind when you get ideas like this, okay?You’re hurt.You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Okay,” Timothée said.

Soon after that, Luca got up, blew out the candles, and left. 

Timothée spent the night trying to erase the image of the greasy bar from his mind.He had made it up in his dreams, he thought.There was no reason to keep dwelling on it.It was only a dream.He stared at the ceiling, and for the first time in a long time, wished that he didn’t have his own trailer.

**Author's Note:**

> We are onlyastoryteller and kingtimmy on Tumblr if you need us.


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